


Gifts for the Sun

by PierreMenard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-11 20:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15323229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PierreMenard/pseuds/PierreMenard
Summary: What is west of Westeros? Sailor's stories tell of a land where there is no winter or want and where death has no dominion. Delirium surely, mirages, illusions - but nothing to be disregarded. Like pearls, illusions contain at their heart a grain of something solid, a root from which they arise. Like oysters, a new folk will wash ashore, bearing gifts to give, expecting gifts to be given.





	1. A MADMAN CONSOLES HIS SON

**Author's Note:**

> Contemporaneous with A Dance with Dragons. Takes place in The Reach and Dorne, fleshes out secondary characters and introduces OC. Passages where multiple languages are spoken will have [[speech]] instead of "speech" to indicate change.
> 
>  
> 
> Original characters and origins heavily inspired by indigenous aesthetics and belief structures. I've tried to make their various cultures analogous to pre-Columbian native cultures in the same way the Seven is an analog of Catholicism. Although some minor characters have been created on the Westorosi side, major title holders, villages, castles, and etc. should be canon compliant for everyone out there who likes doing lore homework.

Lord Gylbert Farwynd, his bid for Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands dismissed, sets course for home. Euron would not have any of Lord Farwynd's three sons as part of his fleet, for fear that they had all inherited the madness of their father. They had not of course, for there is no madness to inherit, Lord Farwynd thinks to himself. Still, this is little consolation to Gyles, Ygon, and Yohn. On the sail back to their island from Great Wyk Lord Farwynd takes note of the faces of his three sons as they work the rigging or steer at the helm. He sees in them the look of a disappointment long expected, a sadness infused with relief. No doubt they're ashamed of their father, Lord Farwynd thinks to himself. No doubt they felt themselves fools to stand loyal to a man who everyone else ridiculed as delirious from too much sun and sea. But the truth is the truth.

After eight quiet days at sea the island of the Lonely Light comes into view. A rocky shoreline rises up from the sea to form an island plateau on which people have established their rickety wooden homes. One can see the bustling masses of peasantry on the shore busy with the goings on of humanity and at sea all around the island small fishing vessels wander here and there. Behind them all at the western edge of the isle rises the modest stone castle of House Farwynd, the Bulwark of Salt, which itself hosts the Last Light, the lightower that is the westernmost point in all of Westeros.

Apart from this island silhouette there is nothing. To the left and the right, above and below, the blues of sea and sky extend on forever.

As his sons oversee the unloading of House Farwynd's small fleet, Lord Gylbert Farwynd and his royal entourage make for the Bulwark of Salt. He's been away for many weeks now. He doesn't want to neglect his youngest for any longer than he needs to. And he wants some relief for his heart, besides.

Little Grygory Farwynd is only seven years old, nine years younger than his next oldest brother Yohn, with black hair, dark eyes, and pale fair skin, much like his father. Lord Farwynds first three were born to his first wife Gwyndolyn, but the third birth proved too much for that lovely woman. Little Grygory was born of a saltwife, taken whilst Lord Farwynd reaved the mainland out of bitterness, saddened that his wife would not live to see the Land of the Dawn.

On arriving at the Bulwark Lord Farwynd's servants inform him that Little Grygory can be found in his most favorite of all places: at the top of the Last Light. Lord Farwynd makes his way up the cold steps, carved into the gray stone of the island, to find the great brazier of fire at the top of the lighthouse unlit. His youngest is at the railings, peering out toward the west.

"Grygory, I thought we had an understanding," says Lord Farwynd, "you could come up here only to light the light."

"Father!" says little Grygory, surprised. The boy turns and runs into his father's embrace.

"I saw the  _Blue Wynd_  coming earlier," says little Grygory, "and that's when I remembered I had to light the fire, but then I got distracted, because I thought about you, and why you were back, and about the Land of the Dawn.

"Since you're here, does this mean you aren't Lord Reaper?" asks little Grygory.

"I'm afraid so little one," says Lord Farwynd, "the ironborn did not believe in me, and they chose someone else to be king of the Iron Islands."

"Who?" asks little Grygory.

"Euron Greyjoy," says Lord Farwynd, "Lord Reaper Euron Greyjoy," he corrects himself.

"Why didn't they believe in you?" asks little Grygory.

"I don't know," says Lord Farwynd, "I suppose I couldn't offer them any proof, just my word."

"You could have used the foreign words," says little Grygory, "like you showed me."

The swishy language of the People of the Dawn, Lord Farwynd thinks to himself. It's true, he could have spoken in that tongue to his ironborn peers. But they were already skeptical of his claims, and he feared that to speak foreign words just then would have made him look even more like a raving madman.

"Perhaps I could have," says Lord Farwynd to his son. He looks out at the sea toward the west as his son was doing, "perhaps I should have," he corrects himself again.

"Does this mean we won't be going to the Land of the Dawn?" asks little Grygory.

"No," says Lord Farwynd, "I'm afraid we won't."

Lord Farwynd looks down at his youngest son and sees the boys shoulders slump. Little Grygory turns away from his father and looks out at the sea as well, his young face forlorn.

"But perhaps you will be able to go, someday," says Lord Farwynd.

"How? The Lonely Light is small. You said we would need the help of Great Wyk," says little Grygory.

"The Lonely Light is small," says Lord Farwynd, "and we don't have the ships or the men, or at least, not yet. But we can put the pieces together - a new ship here, a cache of supplies there - so that in time we can afford to make the crossing. It will take a long time, that's true. I will be dead and you might be an old man by the time the fleet is ready once more, but you will be able to go and see it."

"Do you really think so father?" asks little Grygory.

"Yes, of course," says Lord Farwynd. The truth is the truth. The only reason he is willing to let his other sons go and risk their lives reaving is because he knows that should they all fall in battle little Grygory will be here to continue his legacy of westward exploration. Little Grygory will lead a fleet into the Sunset Sea of so many ships and men that he'll be able to bring back the exotic treasures of that alien continent. Little Grygory will redeem his family's name.

"Will you tell me the story again?"

"Where should I start?," asks Lord Farwynd. Outside of the few men that returned with him little Grygory is the only person who's ever wanted to talk with Farwynd about what he saw across the sea. Not wanting to disappoint the boy Lord Farwynd long ago started embellishing the story so as to keep the little one's attention, and with so many years between him and that fateful voyage, the embellishments have become indiscernible from memory.

"Start from the storm," says little Grygory.

"Ah yes, when the Storm God brought his wrath down upon the sea," begins Lord Farwynd, "We thought that we had perhaps angered him with our audacity, since at this point we were farther west in the Sunset Sea than any ship had ever been before. Surely the Storm God had espied our vessel and sought to punish us for overstepping our bounds as men of flesh and blood. Over the course of a day tall dark clouds gathered themselves up along the horizon, like an army, but they did not direct themselves at us. No. They were to break themselves upon the sea only - fighters in one of the many clashes between the Storm God and the Drowned God, part of one of the titanic battles the two wage out in the vastness of the open ocean. Although the dark storm clouds were a ways off in the distance, such was the excess of their reach that if we maintained our course we would have been swept up in their chaos."

"But then you saw the Forktail birds!" says little Grygory.

"Yes," says Lord Farwynd, "Forktails. Massive birds, all white and black, beaks as long a man's arm, with a wingspan as almost as wide as our ship was long. And yet as large as they are they still appear slender, their wings tapering down to clean points. We still don't know what land the Forktails come from or which they fly to. While out at sea we never once saw them land to rest in the water, which was just as well. The men feared they might try to attack us if they came to see us as food.

Forktails always fly away from an approaching storm, sometimes from storms you can't even see yet. They fly toward the westward wind channels, winds that would take us away from the storm's path, but even farther away from home. Our supplies were low - we had just barely enough for the return voyage then - but if we turned back just we would have sailed right into the middle of the fight between the two gods. And to go on would guarantee starvation on the return home, no matter how well we rationed ourselves. We were far outside the bounds of any map, farther than any man had ever been. Or so we thought. After much deliberation I ordered we press on and follow the Forktails. They'd led us true in the past, and I trusted in their wisdom."

"Then you saw it," says little Grygory.

"Yes, within a fortnight we saw it," says Lord Farwynd, "the place the people there call the Land of the Dawn. A beautiful place, beaches with soft sand and clear water, verdant forests of tall trees, tracks of rich dark earth, and behind it all a range of faraway mountains that appeared to float among the clouds. Unlike Westeros, where men conquered nature, here in the Land of the Dawn men learned to tame nature: their homes are made of thick branches that seemed to grow from the ground all weaved together to form a circular structure, each large enough to shelter a family of ten. At the center of their homes' domed roofs was a small circle where smoke escaped from the hearths within, and these trails of smoke dotted the coast as far as we could see. Their fishing boats, of which there were many, were carved out of a single tree trunk, long enough so that four men could lie down in one and wide enough for two men to sit side by side. The fishermen all looked upon the Red Wynd and it's sailors with curious eyes, and us them. The people of the Dawn have dark skin and black hair and are covered in tattoos and feathery charms, each more strange than the last.

After a time, seeing that we were foreign, they led us to a dock and allowed us to disembark. Their port village was much like any other one sees across the world: there were buildings and streets, parents and children, merchants and artisans, rich and poor, and everything else. But it was as if all those elements were put together in a different way there, and yet, bizarre as they were, they were still all the common things of common folk. People talked, people laughed, people argued, all while looking absurd, as if it were just another day. I can't explain it, what it's like seeing so much strangeness all at once. That is why you'll have to go see it for yourself."

Little Grygory nods to himself resolutely.

"In that foreign village the local Lord granted us an audience. His hall was grand and made all of a sturdy wood, every inch of it painted or carved with icons of their foreign religion so that it seemed like one single piece of art. Since we couldn't speak his tongue he gave us shelter for a few days until such time that one of his wisemen, a grayhaired man named Quahlo, could teach us enough to treat with him. The Lord's name was Tisquano, or at least this is how he made us known to him, and he took pity on us, for he saw how thin and wretched we were when we first arrived in his village. Because of this he offered us supplies and had his workers make a few repairs to our ship, so that we might return home safely. From his comportment, and that of his people, I took it that they thought of us as some sort of omen, for anytime we passed by them they would stare and speak in hushed tones with one another, quickly forgetting us and passing on to a serious discussion that none of us could follow.

Lord Tisquano told us that we were to return home and inform our countrymen of his land, and that he would do the same with his countrymen. Although Quahlo helped as best as he could, we could only understand bits and pieces. But Lord Tisquano made it clear that there were other kingdoms besides the Land of the Dawn, a kingdom on the plains, a monarchy among the mountains, and an empire of an undying jungle, a jungle that never suffered the cold of winter, a jungle that he said that holds the secret to eternal life. All of these, he said, were kingdoms that would be interested in new peoples to share their gifts with. I promised the good Lord Tisquano I would do as he expected of me. It was the least I could do for ensuring we wouldn't starve on our voyage home."

"When I go to the Land of the Dawn I will find Lord Tisquano," says little Grygory, "and I'll thank him once again for you father."

Lord Farwynd chuckles.

"Lord Tisquano was already an older man when I last saw him, he will surely be dead by the time you make the voyage," says Lord Farwynd.

"Then I will treat with his son," says little Grygory, "he has a son, doesn't he?"

"Oh yes," says Lord Farwynd, "he has four children. Two boys and two girls. His youngest is about your age now I imagine."

"What were their names?" asks little Grygory.

"You know," says Lord Farwynd, "I don't think I can remember. It was so many years ago now and I you know I don't have a good ear for names. You'll have to go and ask them yourself."

Little Grygory smiles and Lord Farwynd is glad to see it.


	2. A FAMILY OF LOWLY SMALLFOLK IS VISITED BY A PAIR OF STRANGERS

The twins Calissa and Leander come running over the hill and back to the farm, yelling excitedly:

"Momma! Poppa!" they cry in unison, "you won't believe what we saw!"

Their mother is in the cottage sewing and their father is out on the field harvesting the last of the wheat with an old scythe. The parents don't pay the twins much mind; the twins often see things that can't be believed. Their eldest brother Lomys however, repairing an old axe by the shed, decides to humor them:

"And what is it this time? A grumkin, or a snark?" says Lomys.

"Strangers!" says Calissa.

This detail gives Lomys pause. It's not often they get travelers this far from the main road. Small folk don't have enough coin to make them worth a merchants detour and so most folks head west for the town of Cuy. Who would come out here?

The twins arrive at the door of the shed, panting from the run.

"They were wearing funny clothes," begins Leander, catching his breath.

"Funny how?" asks Lomys.

"Funny all over," says Calissa.

"They're wearing long blue and white shirts," says Leander, "and funny cloaks-"

"One of them a red one and one of them a grey one! They tied them on crooked," says Calissa, "over their shoulder instead of in the middle, and the cloaks don't go all the way to the ground-"

"- and they're not wearing shoes, they're wearing wood sandals-"

"-and they have funny hair!"

"Yeah! One of them is a girl with long black hair, and the other is shaved bald except for a line of hair on the top of his head-"

"Like a horse's hair!"

"Yeah!"

The twins laugh.

Lomys isn't sure they're playing pretend anymore. This is a little more detail than they can usually come up with.

"Were they coming this way?" he asks.

"I think so," says Calissa, "they saw me and Leander and they pointed to us and waved."

"We thought we should tell momma and poppa that we might have guests coming," says Leander.

Lomys peers into the eyes of his little brother and sister.

"Go inside with momma," says Lomys, "go help her get ready."

The twins run off, shouting to their parents of the two strangers and their amusing appearance. Lomys hammers the last wooden wedge into the axe's head to keep it from jostling about and takes an experimental swing. He brushes his brown hair away from his blue eyes and looks over toward the hill from where the two twins came running but sees no one approaching in the distance. Strangers, so far from the road? Lomys gives a pensive hrmmm. With his eyes still on the hill he walks out to the wheat field to speak with his father.

"Poppa," says Lomys.

"Ah, you fixed the axe," says his father, Cleyton, absentmindedly. Cleyton takes one last swing and then lets the scythe down. There's only a day's worth of wheat left to be reaped and Cleyton looks on at his handiwork, satisfied.

"Yes, the axe ought to work fine now," says Lomys, then: "the twins say there are two strangers coming to our house."

"Two strangers, eh?" says Cleyton, "were they carrying swords or anything like that?"

"I don't know," says Leander, "the twins only said that they wore strange clothes."

His father hrmmms and thinks for a moment.

"Well if they had swords I imagine the twins would have said so," says his father, "you know how they like stories about knights and adventures. I'd imagine a sword would be the first thing they'd look for," Cleyton chuckles.

"Strangers could be dangerous," says Lomys.

"They could be," says his father, "but without swords, with only two of them, I don't imagine they're looking for trouble."

"There could be more of them," says Lomys.

Cleyton arches an eyebrow, notices his sons grip on the axe.

"I suppose so," says his father, "but I don't reckon there are. We're too far out of the way," he takes another pause for thought, "It might be that they're lost, which might explain their strange clothes. You know, the twins have never seen the finery of lords and ladies, maybe that's what they saw? It could be that the strangers are highborn and lost. Maybe they'll reward us handsomely for providing them food and shelter."

Cleyton smiles.

Lomys gives him an incredulous look.

"I suppose we'll have to greet them to see what the case may be," says his father.

Being the man of the house Cleyton returns to the cottage to speak with mother and to prepare to greet the guests. Lomys returns to the stump behind the shed to finish chopping wood with the newly repaired axe. He lines up a block of a wood and splits it cleanly in two, then another and another, until he falls into a rhythm.

Caravans of merchants travel in and out of Cuy, and like wolves following a herd, the bandits are never too far behind. And why wouldn't they wander up here? Bandits have nothing to fear so long as they only steal from the smallfolk instead of the highborn. The smallfolk don't have any guards; all they have are rusty farm scythes and shoddy axes and the meager hope that they don't have anything worth stealing. These and other thoughts wander through Lomys' mind as he works. He tries to set on mind on other things, but there's something in the way the axe splinters wood that won't let him.

When he's finished and gathering up the firewood he spots the two strangers the twins were talking about, coming over the hill now. It's as they said: large blue tunics, something between shirts and dresses, and long heavy red cloaks with a brown trim that are tied at one shoulder instead of in front. One is a woman with long hair and the other is a man with hair in a line, like a horse. Lomys also sees the things the twins didn't mention: both the travelers have soot black hair and skin the color of burnt umber. He stares for a few moments - he's never seen such people before. - and when he realizes he's doing so he looks away to avoid the impoliteness. As they come closer more details come into focus. The man has a piercing on his lip and a tattoos on the side of his face, while the woman has a piercing in her eyebrow and a jade stud under her lips. Both have little loops of gold pierced all up and down their ears and the sight of these causes Lomys to wince in pain as he feels ghosts of the piercings in himself.

As the strangers approach the family cottage his father shouts a greeting to them and the two strangers shout something back in a foreign tongue. At this his father tilts his head in surprise. Lomys' mother, hearing the foreign tongue as well, comes out from the cottage to investigate.

"Cleyton," says his mother to his father, "did you understand that?"

"Not a single word," says Cleyton. He smiles and waves to the strangers.

"Foreigners then," she says.

"I suppose so," says Cleyton , "if they speak foreign they probably  _are_  foreign."

"Essosi?" asks his mother, then she answers herself, "not like any Essosi I've ever seen."

"You've seen many Essosi have you?" asks Cleyton playfully.

"You know what I mean," says his mother, "and besides, what are they doing here? There's nothing here but us."

"The Sunhouse is near," says Cleyton.

"There are much finer halls in Westeros for Essosi to visit than the Sunhouse," says his mother.

"Don't speak ill of the Cuys," says Cleyton.

"Or what? They know it just as well as anyone else," says his mother.

The strangers - smiling and in good spirits - approach the couple.

"Niltse," say the two foreigners in unison. They say something else, something lengthy in a sing song sort of language with curious consonants. Lomys stops working and watches them from out on the field. They place a hand over their hearts and then extend their hand to shake. Although their words might be strange the outstretched arm is familiar sight and Lomys' parents shake hands. Lomys espies his little brother and sister also watching their parents, mouths agape, both of them peeking from around a rough hewn corner of the stonework cottage.

The foreigners speak in their foreign tongue and do a lot of pointing and gesturing as they do so. It's not clear what their meaning is; watching them one gets the sense that they might be lost. The smallfolk offer a few conciliatory words, but nothing gets across and so they give sheepish smiles, unsure of what else to offer. The foreigners aren't keen to surrender their attempts at conversation however, and through considerable repetition and play acting a few things manage to get sorted out. The strangers seem to motion to a place far away and they make wide gestures of gratitude and wonder. Names are exchanged: the woman is named Citlali and the man is named Akatzin.

At this point the foreign woman Citlali takes off her pack and rummages through it to retrieve a book, simple and bound in grass colored leather, emblazoned with the image of a sun, or something like it. With book in hand Citlali shows the smallfolk the pages. They contain colorful pictures of people and things, with every picture joined by some foreign writing just underneath. Citlali turns through a few pages, pointing and saying some of the words.

"Ailuikatl," says Citlali. She points to an image of wavy blue lines.

"I think they want us to read it Layla," says Cleyton.

"Well that's no good," says Layla, "the only person in this family who knows his letters is you, and you hardly know them at all."

"Nimitstiatlautia," says Citlali.

Neither Cleyton nor Layla know how to respond, so they smile and nod.

Out by the shed Lomys tosses the last of the firewood to the pile. He keeps the axe on his belt and walks over to hear better. When he nears the cottage Leander and Calissa come out from around the corner and follow behind him, gathering at his legs as they watch the foreigners. At the sight of the twins Citlali and Akatzin smile and make the gentle cooing sounds that all people make toward children. Citlali moves the book so that the pages are clear to the twins. She points to the page, showing a depiction of people shaking hands and says:

"Niltse," she pauses, "inin, Niltse."

The twins look at the page then at her.

"Niltse," repeat the twins.

Citlali smiles and claps her hands together.

"Niltse," says Citlali, and she puts her hand over her heart before extending it to the twins.

"Niltse! Niltse!" say the twins and they take turns shaking her hand excitedly.

A few more games of charades are played and a few more images from the book are excitedly pointed to but this yields little in the form of communication. Not all of the pictures are quite so straightforward, and they all appear to be depicted in such a strange style, besides. Cleyton however, always the gentle patriarch, manages to convey an invitation to the foreigners for supper. Layla sets to work serving the stew while Cleyton and the twins entertain the strangers with a brief tour of the inside of their modest home.

Lomys is absorbed in watching the mannerisms of the strangers. The two of them inspect the cottage with a mix of squinty-eyed curiosity and genuine surprise. Citlali makes it a point to touch nothing and only moves her head about the objects of her curiosity, like a bird, while Akatzin seems more than happy to poke or tap on things to test their strength.

The twins follow Citlali around, picking things up and showing them to her.

"Boots!" says Calissa, holding up her father's shoes.

"Euateuatl," says Citlali.

"Eh-wah-te-ooo-atla!" says Leander.

Citlali chuckles, "Euateuatl," she corrects.

"These are boots!" says Calissa, fighting to regain attention.

"Bootuh," says Citlali.

The twins laugh.

Once Akatzin is done examining the stew pot he steps aside to peer out the window. Layla takes the opportunity to begin serving supper and ladles the rabbit stew into eight bowls. At this the strangers cease their meandering to watch the food be served. They become suddenly very hesitant about all their movements; Cleyton must persuade them to be seated with a few more sweeping motions. After that's done Layla serves the bowls to the family. Akatzin and Citlali wait for the family to begin eating before they deign to pick up their spoons. Once they do however they only glimpse at the food before wolfing it down, holding the bowls up to their mouths to hasten the process, finishing their meal before the family has time to start. Afterward they sit politely, occasionally muttering a few phrases to one another while pointing to this or that as the family eats supper.

Now that he's seated close to the strangers, Lomys takes note of their foreign features. Both have high cheekbones and hawk like noses. He searches for Citlali's eyes and when their gazes meet for a moment - he looks away out of politeness - he notices they're the green of fresh grass shoots.

"Well, this will certainly be worth telling people about when we go into town," says Layla, "we're entertaining Essosi!"

"I don't think these are Essosi," says Cleyton.

"Oh, so now  _you_  know about Essosi eh?" asks Layla.

"Essosi don't wear cloaks," says Cleyton, "it's warm in Essos."

"They have winter in Essos too you old fool," says Layla.

"Let's not fight in front of our guests," says Cleyton. He smiles at the foreigners.

"It's not like they can understand us," says Layla.

"They can hear the tone of it," says Cleyton.

"If they're from Essos, what are they doing here?" asks Lomys.

"Maybe they're lost," says Calissa.

"Can they stay with us?" asks Leander.

This question doesn't end up needing an answer, as after supper the foreigners bow in gratitude and make their way to the door. They perform another series of charades and then Citlalti presents the family with the book they showed them before, as a gift. The twins reach for it eagerly, their eyes wide with surprise, and they look to their parents to see if they can take it. Their father cannot refuse his children such a gift and he nods to give his permission. Once it's in their hands the twins look back at Citlali with astonishment. Only the oldest son arches an eyebrow. The twins flip it open to begin poring over it but before they can do so Citlali places a hand on the pages to stop them. She points to one page in particular. It contains a simple picture of two people with one walking away from the other while looking back and waving.

"Aneh," says Citlali.

"Aneh!" say the twins in unison.

And with this the strangers depart.


	3. LOMYS ENDEAVORS TO BE RID OF THE BOOK

As the hour is late, Cleyton puts the book on a high shelf to save his children from the insomnia of curiosity. It can be dealt with in the morning.

Early in that morning, just before the dawn light peeks over the horizon, Lomys lies awake and begins to wonder if the book is cursed. What sort of person goes out and gives away a book of gibberish? Books are lordly things, Maesterly things - things, in other words, coveted and owned by people with means. From his straw bed, Lomys looks out the doorway of his chilly room into the main room of his family's cottage. The book sits on a shelf just out of sight. He imagines it's dimensions in his mind now: a hand and a half in length and height, tough leather binding - in green! - and that odd circular insignia.

Lomys decides he needs to read the book, to know what the foreigners know and, possibly, what they intend. For the sake of protection.

He rises slowly from the straw so as to avoid creating too much noise. If the twins hear him wake up they'll whine to see it - like they did when his father brought them sugared plums - loud enough that their parents will wake up. Then it'll be straight to chores. Once up from his bed he sneaks through the quiet cottage to the shelf but finds the book missing. He notices also that the twins are missing from their beds. His eyes adjust to the dawn twilight and he sees them sitting on the floor, looking over the book in silence.

Lomys tip toes to them and they speak in whispers to avoid waking their parents. They pull the book away from Lomys at first, but they're happy to tell him what they've discovered. Leander tells him that the book is lighter than it looks at first; that the cover, while colored in the green of weeping tree leaves, smells strangely of dirt; that the pages are thick and tough, and, are difficult to tear or wrinkle, although he promises he hasn't tried it. Calissa tells him the cover has a picture of either a sun or a ring, or maybe it's both; that while the pictures don't seem to tell a story they have colors like bright flowers; that Leander licked one of the pages to see if it tasted like anything even though she told him not to. This triggers the beginning of a fight between the twins and to head it off Lomys suggests they all go outside so they might have better light to see with.

Being the older brother, as soon as they step outside Lomys plucks the book up out of the twins' hands. They draw in their breaths to protest but Lomys puts his finger to his lips and then motions to their parents room. For a moment he's not sure if they'll protest anyway, but they're getting older now and their getting chores now too. They also don't want to start the day early.

Seated at the east wall of their cottage, Lomys opens the book to first few pages. He recognizes the pictures Citlali pointed out before, the ones with the people shaking hands and the people parting ways. There are a few more pictures in this vein, pictures of folks talking, gathering, laughing, crying, and the other various gestures of people everywhere. Lomys notices that all the people depicted have umber skin like the strangers had, and styles of hair even more strange.

"Jump ahead," says Leander, "these pictures are the boring ones."

"And they don't have as many colors either," says Calissa.

Lomys does as they say and stumbles onto depictions of flowers. They float amongst the blank whiteness on the page as if suspended in the air. Bright blues, deep greens, and ruby reds give the sense that these flowers might still be alive.

"I've never seen flowers like these," says Lomys.

"Me neither," says Calissa, "do you think they're real?"

"Of course not," says Leander, "they're just pictures."  
"They might be real," says Calissa, "right Lomys?"

"They might be," says Lomys. He touches the page and feels only the paper. This ink cannot be felt with fingers.

"They might be from somewhere far away," mutters Lomys.

"Maybe that's what the flowers are like where they're from," says Calissa.

"Maybe," says Leander, "anyway. Look at this Lomys."

Leander flips a few more pages ahead and opens to two adjacent pages, each with a picture of a head and shoulders, of a man on one and a woman on the other. Unlike the previous images of people, which were stylized depictions, these are truer to life. Both of them show a number of piercings Lomys hadn't ever imagined possible: the man has pierced ears in the low spot where one would expect but also in three other spots up along his ears, as well as rings pierced into his lips and a ring around the nose like a bull. The woman has only a single ear piercing that appears to leave a hole out of the skin of her earlobes, ring piercings along her eyebrows, and a single jade stud in the space between her lips and her chin.

"Turn the page," says Calissa, squirming, "I don't like these."

"They look like they must hurt!" says Leander, teasing.

"Turn the page!" says Calissa. She's turned her head away but can't keep herself from peeking.

Lomys turns the page a few more times, skipping images of other piercings and curious scars along the head and body, and finds images of a naked man covered in strange tattoos.

"The naked pictures!" says Calissa.

"Oh they're not a big deal," says Leander, "look, this one has a falcon on his shoulder."

Lomys closes the book.

"This book isn't for children," says Lomys.

"Why?!," say the twins in unison.

"Those pictures are immoral," says Lomys.

"Not at all the pictures are like those ones!" says Calissa.

"Yeah!" says Leander, "besides, we looked at all the pictures already, it's not like we don't know what they look like!"

"Well then I guess you don't need the book anymore then do you?" says Lomys.

Leander goes to protest but realizes the admission he's made. Calissa realizes it too and gives her twin brother a mean look.

"Go play somewhere else," says Lomys and he shoos them away.  
The twins make a couple of minor protests but in the end they give into their older brother's command. They wander off to pester the chickens, leaving Lomys the east wall of their family cottage clear and to himself. He opens the book once more to the pictured of the tattooed man. He's heard of how barbarians like the Dothraki tattoo themselves, but he never thought such markings could be as intricate as this. The patterns on the man's skin appear in all sorts of strange geometric patterns, containing fine details which Lomys imagines must be difficult to make. Strange patterns runs up and down the man's body, out to his arms and legs and up onto his head, asymmetrical and confusing. On the next page there is a woman, naked and tattooed as well, but her tattoos appear to be more orderly and focused on symmetry, so that a line could be drawn right down the middle of her and get mirror images on either side. Lomys marvels at seeing so much of her and her brown skin. His mind wanders to Citlali and for a moment he wonders if she has tattoos like these.

Lomys shakes his head. He turns more pages and finds more bewildering things: fruits and vegetables of unknown origin, beasts and birds unlike anything he's known, a collection of clothing as fine as it is ludicrous. Curiosity is in full control of him now and Lomys finds himself turning the pages faster than his eyes can decipher their meaning. Buildings of strange make and material, sharp cruel-looking objects that must be weapons, and intricate jewelry made of thin gold and precious stones. Near the end he finds a recreation of the image on the cover. This time however it makes up the center of a line of images - a progression that shows the sun slowly being eaten away by darkness, like a waxing moon, until it's a black circle with a red ring of flames. The pictures that follow this image are ominous: rotting food, starving people, dead livestock, bloody combat, and always in the sky that same black sun.

Cursed, decides Lomys; foreigners working on behalf of the Stranger. Foreign warlocks hoping to conjure trouble.

From inside the cottage he hears something stir. Now aware of his chances of being caught, he sneaks back into the cottage and places the book back on the shelf. He slips outside without letting the wood floor creak. Hopefully when his parents look through it and see the black sun they'll agree with him about the book. Lomys goes out to find the twins already going about feeding the chickens

In the evenings Cleyton likes to whittle while seated on an old stump at the edge of the family's plot of land. From that spot one can look to the north and see the rolling green hills give way to the lush plains of the Reach, or to the east where the dry foothills of the Red Mountains begin. Together these provide a vast frame for watching the tall clouds drift by and the cool wind work across the grass in waves like water. As Lomys approaches his father he can see that this time he's whittling a little figurine, in the shape of one of the foreigners, with a cloak tied at one shoulder. Lomys doesn't take this is as the best of signs. For his whole life Cleyton has been a soft hearted man and Lomys can easily imagine his father insisting on keeping the book, for sentimental purposes.

"Poppa," says Lomys.

"Good evening son," says Cleyton.

"Poppa, I started looking through the book those foreigners gave us-"

"Citlali and, what was it? Akatzin," says Cleyton.

"Yes," says Lomys, "have you seen the pictures toward the end? Of the black sun?"

"I have," says Cleyton, "it's probably some foreign fairy tale I imagine."

"Poppa...," begins Lomys, "strange people with strange books, couldn't it be...couldn't they be...warlocks? Witches? Something like that?"

"I would have thought you too old to believe in witches," chuckles Cleyton.

"You know what I mean," says Lomys, "this could be a dangerous book they've given us."

"Then why would they give it to us?" asks his father, "if it's dangerous to use they wouldn't entrust it to strangers, and if it's cursed I think we'd have known by now. Besides, it's not like we're going to keep it."

"We're not?"  
His father shaves off some of the excess wood around the figure's head so that its hair resembles a horse's mane.

"No, your mother made the good point that it won't do us any good. After all, what use is a book in a language we don't even speak? I couldn't disagree with her. Better to sell it, get you kids something warm for when winter comes."

Lomys smiles in relief, but hides it after a moment.

"I would have preferred to keep it though," says his father, "we don't really have anything to pass down, and it's a pretty thing. Could've made for a family heirloom."

Satisfied that he needn't do any more persuading Lomys bids his father a good evening and heads back into the cottage. The smell of a root vegetable stew fills the air, mixing with the smell of the burnt wood from the fire. He says good evening to his mother, who tells him to prepare the table. The book sits up on the shelf. He's glad that his family will be rid of it. He would have preferred burning of course; fire is cleansing, and he's got no doubt that that's exactly what's needed now. Selling it works out much better though, if he's honest with himself. The family's blankets are modest and rather thin and in need of replacement. It's not so bad a thing now, but it'll be bad when the winter comes. How much could they get for it? Now that's a fine question. A silver stag, perhaps? A silver stag would go a long way to make sure he and everyone else can stay warm, might even be able to afford some ale to keep the cold out of their bones.


	4. THE STRANGERS SEEK KNOWLEDGE OF THE REACH

This time they arrive in the morning just after breakfast and they bring with them large sheets of something like dark tough parchment, along with quills and ink. The rest of the family is just beginning to work the chores as the twins go out to greet the foreigners, shouting niltse! Niltse! The foreigners smile and laugh and respond in kind. The rest of the family watches the twins as they go out and play charades, point to the cloaks of the foreigners, asking if they can touch them. Citlali is happy to oblige them, but Akatzin appears protective of his clean red cloak. Once they've exchanged smiles with the twins, the foreigners walk to the cottage. Another round of charades is played during which Lomys' family gathers that the foreigners are asking about the book.

"I'm glad we haven't gotten rid of it just yet," says Cleyton, "we'd have looked ungrateful. Lomys, fetch the book."

Despite himself, Lomys does as he's told.

With book in hand Citlali opens to a few pages. One is of a landscape, a valley with some mountains in the background and the next is of a large piece of parchment like the two strangers have with them, and the last is of a man in the center of a circle of people, all of which are bowing their heads to him. Citali then makes a few motions with her hands, first of a mouth talking, then putting it up to her ear as if to listen, then finally making writing motions in the air. As she does each of these she says and repeats a certain word, presumably whatever the word for that action is in their own language.

"They want us to answer questions," says Leander.

"They want to draw a map!" says Calissa.

"You two catch on quick," says Cleyton, happy to see such sharp wits in his children.

"We don't have any maps for them to draw from," says Layla.

"I could draw them a map," says Cleyton, "at least for everything from Cuy to the Red Mountains. I once saw a map of all of Westeros too, I don't know if I could do it all from memory, but it'd be better than nothing."

"Should we be giving foreigner maps of our lands?" asks Lomys.

"Son, I don't know why you're so suspicious," says Cleyton, "I thought I taught you something about guest right."  
"I don't think they know what guest right is," says Lomys.

"Maybe," says Cleyton, "but considering they gave us a gift, I imagine they have something similar wherever they're from. Besides, if I draw them a map they might wander off and visit with someone else."

"Is that why they're coming to us?" asks Layla, "for directions?"

Lomys is glad to see that at least his mother has some healthy skepticism.

"Makes sense to me," says Cleyton, "if you were a foreigner in a foreign land you'd probably need help finding your way around."  
But poppa is too trusting, Lomys thinks to himself.

A few more charades are played out. Cleyton communicates that he can draw them a map if they allow him to use the quill. Citlali and Akatzin agree, and everyone heads inside to the dinner table to watch Cleyton set out what he knows of Westeros. Normally Lomys and the twins are tasked with regular farm work when the adults discuss matters, but their mother allows them to stay and watch their father work with ink and parchment as if he were a highborn.

The quill the foreigners provide is made of a feather of a bird none of the family's ever seen before, a thin and elegant pine-green-colored feather that shimmers slightly in the light. To the surprise of the smallfolk family their patriarch knows how to grip the quill with his fore finger and thumb and how to draw smooth clean lines with the confidence of a master. The foreigners look on with interest, occasionally nodding to themselves, as if Cleyton's drawing confirms some of their own geographic suspicions.

First Cleyton draws where the cottage is, right in the center of the map. To the north he draws the foothills of the Red Mountains and then the Red Mountains themselves as he makes his way up the map toward the northeast. To the direct east he draws the narrow bay that is fed by the Torrentine, the river that cuts into the mountain range, and on the other side of it he draws the shore of Dorne. There he places a little star to signify the location of castle Starfall, seat of House Dayne. To the south he draws the coastline and the southern sea, and to the south west he draws a little flower to signify the location of the Sunhouse, seat of House Cuy. Around that he adds a few little buildings to represent the town of Cuy. From there he continues west to draw the western edge of the Reach, as far north as Oldtown, before finally finishing with the island that is the Arbor that helps create the Redwater Straits.

"This is just around us," says Cleyton to the foreigners, forgetting they can't understand him, "give me another parchment and I can draw what I remember of Westeros."

This takes another round of charades to communicate.

The map of Westeros he draws is less savvy than the first map. The farther north he draws the more unsure his hand becomes and Cleyton pauses and redraws certain lines, muttering to himself. He marks a few of the important landmarks: Highgarden, Sunspear, King's Landing, Lannisport. After that the landmarks become much more vague: the Reach, the Neck, and the North all look out of proportion with the rest of the map. The foreigners don't appear to notice this. Once Cleyton is done Citlali and Akatzin look the maps over. Akatzin pulls out another scroll, this one also containing a crude map of an area, and they compare the maps while muttering phrases to one another, point at this and that. Lomys takes note of this other map, can see that it shows the land east of his family's farm. On the coastline he sees they've drawn an image of an eye.

Satisfied with the maps Cleyton's given them, Citlali and Akatzin bow their heads. Using the book they convey a message: us, you, help, harvest, work. This is a message that the poor family receives without much confusion. There's always work that needs to be done and it never hurts to have more hands to help. If the foreigners wish to eat with them once more it's only fair that they earn the privilege.

Citlali stays at the cottage to help their mother while Akatzin goes to work in the field with Lomys and his father. Akatzin leaves his cloak at the cottage and in doing so he reveals a tough sinewy body that looks accustomed to labor. Lomys realizes then that he doesn't know how old Akatzin is; his foreign features make him difficult to place. Whatever his age, Akatzin is childlike in his wonder of their little farm. He's distracted for a good long while by the family horse, an aging stot named Whitemane, that he inspects as the beast rests in its stable. He appears surprised by the presence of wheat on the farm and takes a few minutes to inspect and consider what's left of it on the field, as if trying to imagine it when it was full. His hand reaches to pluck out a stalk but before he does so he looks to Lomys, who looks to Cleyton, who nods. Akatzin takes the stalk of wheat and smells it, taking special precaution as he moves his nose close to the head of the stalk. He tears a piece of the head and eats it. Predictably, it tastes terrible, and he makes a grimace with each grinding chew. Lomys looks on, baffled, while Cleyton chuckles.

As the two of them show Akatzin how to work the scythe and where to store the harvest, Lomys can't help but think that this further kindness from these foreigners will change his father's mind about selling the book. Lomys becomes tense when his father hands the harvesting scythe to Akatzin, and remains so when Akatzin swings the scythe, taking care to watch the foreigner's hands. His father's words drift through his mind.  _Why are you so suspicious._ How could he not know? He was there that razor thin moment when Lomys was ten, when they were robbed on their way back from Cuy. The bandits brandished knives and grim faces and took all the coin they made at market. The encounter lasted only a few minutes but it's echoed through Lomys' thoughts ever since then. The family had to go hungry for months. He doesn't know how his father can remain so kind to strangers after that. That's a lie: he knows. It's meant to be some fatherly lesson about kindness and guest right and honor and how we can't let the cruelty of life taint our souls. But ignoring cruelty doesn't make it go away.

The day goes by quick with another pair of hands on the farm for help and evening falls upon before too long. As supper approaches the twins come running out of the cottage to let the men know dinner is served.

"Akatzin!" Leander and Calissa shout in unison, "Akatzin! Cocochcayotia!"

Akatzin looks around at Lomys and their father.

"What's that now?" asks their father.

"It means supper time poppa!" says Leander.

"Citlali taught us!" says Calissa.

"Is that so?" asks their father.

Akatzin looks to Cleyton, "Cocochcayotia?"  
"Yes I suppose it is," says Cleyton.

In the family cottage Citlali serves up the stew as Layla minds the flame. The twins speak a few words in the foreigner's tongue. Citlali laughs at whatever it is they're saying as the rest of the family gathers at the table. He looks into green irises of her eyes for a few moments too long and looks away.

Despite the fact that two of the people at supper can't converse with the others, an easy air settles over the dinner table. The twins ask about Akatzin and then tell their father and eldest brother about how handy Citlali is around the cottage. The two foreigners smile and appear pleased when they hear their names mentioned. After a little while the conversation dies down, as conversations tend to do, and in the lull Lomys sees an opportunity.

"We didn't have many chances to talk while we were working," says Lomys, "did anyone get to ask them about the pictures in the book?"

His parents exchange glances.

"Probably some foreign religion," says Layla, "but no, we didn't ask."

"I was trying to ask Citlali about her dress," says Calissa, "but it took all day and I still don't know how she made it."

"So they're dresses then?" asks Leander.

"There were pictures of death and famine, those have to mean something" says Lomys, "if they're worth putting in a book, they're worth talking about."

"Well, I suppose we can ask them now," says Cleyton.

"But they won't understand us," says Calissa, "Citlali's been teaching us all day and me and Leander still can't tell what she means most of the time."

"I bet I could ask her," says Leander with a confident defiance.

"Then ask her," says Lomys, "ask her why they need pictures of famine and people dying."  
"Alright," says Leander. He opens his mouth to speak but he hesitates.

"I'll get the book," says Calissa.

"I don't need it!" says Leander, then, "Citlali."

Citlali turns to him.

"Here I have the book!" says Calissa.

Calissa opens the book to the pages of the dark sun and shows them to Citlali. As Leander struggles to find the words Calissa points to the images of death and famine, and says, "Ixiptli, tleca?"

Citlali looks surprised. She looks to Akatzin, who appears just as surprised, and then back to the family of smallfolk.

"Amatih amo ikualotl?" Citlali asks, bewildered.

The smallfolk look to Leander, waiting for a translation.

"She's surprised," interjects Calissa, "that we don't know that, ah, that...," she pauses then turns to Citlali, "nescayotia Ikualotl?"

Citlali asks for the book, and once it's in her hands she flips to the page with the dark sun.

"Ikualotl," says Citlali.


	5. ON THE JOURNEY TO CUY THE SMALLFOLK AND THE STRANGERS ARE BESET BY MISFORTUNE

That evening a great many pictures are pointed to before it becomes clear that what Akatzin and Citlali are attempting to relay is too complicated to explain with the words at hand. As the sun sets and the candles are lit a few more things are made clear at least: that they refer to themselves as the Atlacal, a word that takes a great many tries to say correctly; the ikualotl, the rot of the sun, is something they hold to be very important; that to speak more they'll need either more time or more expertise. Akatzin asks about wisemen, whether they exist in this land and where they can be found. Citlali proposes that the indigene escort them to Cuy, the place the father, Cleyton, drew on his map - the place marked with the drawing of a flower.

"The flower must be a chieftain of some kind," says Citlali to Akatzin.

"Could be," says Akatzin, "but it could also just be some temple, or some garden they worship, or something like that."

"If it's any of those then it's still a good destination. Whoever administers their religion is probably accustomed to study," says Citlali, "which is good, since it seems there's going to be a lot to explain."

The father points to himself and then to the map where the flower is, saying a few words in his indigene tongue.

"Yes, we'd like you to take us if you could," says Citlali.

Akatzin stands up a little straighter and speaks as if to a particularly dense child.

"Can. You," says Akatzin, "Take us," he points to himself, "To. This place?"

"Don't talk to them like that," says Citlali.

"How else will they understand?" says Akatzin.

The little girl, Calissa, clamors for their attention.

"My father," says Calissa, stumbling through Atlajtoli, "my father go with you, Cuy!"

"Wonderful! Thank you," says Citlali.

"Ask her how far it is," says Akatzin.

"You can ask her yourself," says Citlali.

"Calissa - yes," says Akatzin, "how far is Cuy?"

"Far, no," says Calissa, "near, no. Umm...in between!"

The girls always pick it up faster than the boys, Citlali thinks to herself.

At Calissa's declaration the father and the son begin what sounds like an intense and serious discussion. The son - Lomys - is exhorting something of his father with exasperated gestures. The father, for the first time since Citlali's seen, now looks annoyed. The mother chimes in to the discussion as well, although her voice appears neither to fan the flames nor cool them down. Citlali and Akatzin become uncomfortable; the discussion could only be about them after all. The twins listen with bored expressions, then turn back to Citlali.

"Family," says Leander, "loud."

Citlali smiles and shrugs. They asked Citlali an unending stream of questions as she tried to help their mother around the house. How to say this, how to say that, why is this word so funny, and so on. She supposes it shouldn't surprise her. Their neighbors are leagues away, all of them farmers that probably don't see much of each other except when they meet at market. The children's curiosity is probably starved, and so it's natural that their hungry minds make short work of Atlajtoli.

After a few tense minutes the argument appears resolved. The father doesn't look at his eldest son. The father then says something to his daughter and nods.

"My father go with you, Cuy," says Calissa.

"Thank you," says Citlali, first to Calissa then to Cleyton, who smiles and nods.

"When can he take us?" says Citlali.

"Tomorrow," says Calissa.

"Alright," says Citlali, "we can return tomorrow in the morning, so we can go to Cuy."

"Wait, are we leaving now?" asks Akatzin.

"Yes. They haven't invited us to stay, and we still have gear at our camp," says Citlali.

"They haven't invited us to stay  _yet_ , they might still invite us," says Akatzin.

The indigene look on now in silence, listening to their Atlajtoli intently. Akatzin makes a show of being tired, stretches and yawns and reclines. The twins giggle.

"Stop that," says Citlali, "come on, let's get going. We don't want to overstay our welcome."

Citlali gets up to say farewell, first in Atlajtoli then in the indigene tongue. It's a long and airy word in their language. Akatzin drags his feet a little bit but follows behind her. The indigene bid them farewell warmly, waving and saying friendly words, all of them save for the eldest son, who gives only a perfunctory nod as they exit through the cottage door.

Outside the night is young and the light of the moon is almost full so that the landscape appears bathed in blue ink. As they leave Citlali looks back and sees the small indigene house cast a lopsided silhouette, the orange light of a hearthfire shining from within the frame of a crooked window. Although they know the indigene can't understand them, there is still this strange feeling that Citlali and Akatzin ought to put a polite distance between them before they start speaking of them.

Once that time comes, Akatzin asks:

"Did you notice the smell?" He makes a face to get a rise out of Citlali.

"Akatzin, please," says Citlali.

"I'm serious," says Akatzin, "I saw no tub or room for bathing, neither outside nor in."

"They're simple farmers, they probably don't have much to spare," says Citlali.

"But when do they bathe?" asks Akatzin, "even in the Spined Desert people found ways to keep from this kind of shabbiness."

"Akatzin!" says Citlali. She's silent for a moment, but she relents, "I did notice it though. I hope it isn't common."  
"What if it is?" asks Akatzin jokingly, "I don't know if I want to imagine it, a whole town full of these shabby, smelly, limestone-skinned people."

"Well we're shabby and smelly too," says Citlali, "it's not as if three months at sea does wonders for one's beauty."

"Then we'll fit right in," says Akatzin.

He laughs a loud laugh and Citlali allows herself an amused grin. Ever since they were first paired together in the Itsmitl this has been their pattern: Citlali hews to the Codex and Akatzin mocks it, not out of skepticism but to get a rise out of Citlali. This didn't surprise Citlali even back during their training days at the School of the Obsidian Butterfly. She knows it's wrong to judge to people so superficially, but it's clear that although Akatzin has an Atlacal name his blood comes from Hinojovo. A narrower face, a slightly thinner more rigid nose, and a certain lightness of being that was uncommon for Citlali growing up in the City. Although she'd never trade her childhood for another's - and although folk of the Ephemeral City can be a stubborn and ornery type - she finds herself often wishing she could delight in life as easily as Akatzin does.

The two make their way back to the camp they established away from their ship, the Ixtehuetlon. Hidden in the heart of a small grove and surrounded by dense brush they hide their modest tent and the gear packs that serve as their lifelines. The packs contain the full assortment of tools provided to the Itsmitl: a sharp obsidian-head hatchet, a long obsidian dagger, a bow of yacuna wood to help start fires, leather rolls and other basic camping gear, along with the fine iron needles for the string and the lodestone. Among all of this Citlali and Akatzin lay out their bedrolls to rest. Working on the indigene farm and the ensuing hike home were so tiring that there's little energy left for conversation.

Akatzin falls to sleep in a matter of moments, but Citlali can't seem to do the same. After what feels like an hour of fitful stops and starts, she gets out of her bedroll to tire herself out. She wanders out to the edge of the grove to look once more at this exotic land. This place is vast and wide, like the great prairie of the Circle, but the grass here is shorter and - unless the pale light of the moon is deceiving her - it has a slightly different hue of green than the grass back home. Although perhaps it's just her imagination. Here in this place where everything is so foreign, life looms large - the color and break of the stones and the earth, the bark and the leaves of the trees, the shape of flower's petals and the stalks of curiously sturdy herbs, the rabbits and the birds which look so unlike the rabbits and birds of Atlacal - and Citlali can sense teotl all around her. Although to have stumbled on a new island is enough, Citlali hopes that the eastern shores of the Sunrise Sea will have more to offer.

More people at least, Citlali thinks to herself. On it's first pass the Ixtehuetlon didn't spot any major settlements along the coast, but the weather had been rough and the visibility poor, and it was thought that there would be people further inland. Two weeks of wandering, all to find this lone family of indigene, far from any neighbors, and farther still from anything that could be called a town. It's curious that this land should be so sparse since at first glance it looks like fertile land for farming. Farmers sell at markets, and markets are made of people. People like to gather together, and once they've gathered enough, a few will want to be at the center. One just needs to follow the coin, thinks Citlali, just like it says in the Codex. The people will follow.

Because the night is warm Citlali settles against a tree and falls asleep.

Citlali dreams of being back home in Ayamictlan, in Atlacal. Of still being in training, of still learning the Art of the Itsmitl. Usually these dreams have an anxious energy to them as Citlali relives those exhausting years of examinations and evaluation, but this time they give her reassurance. Unlike in reality, where Citlali existed as a middling student, in her dreams her hands are deft and agile. Her peers look to her for guidance, her teachers for the correct answer. She is at the edge of a dock in the port of Xalalco. She waits for Akatzin, who is struggling to make his way up the dock, tripping over himself. It's not clear what the problem is. Citlali tries to go to him but a crowd of people walk toward the Ixtehuetlon, a river of humans keeping her downstream from him and as he falls out of sight she panics. She wakes up in the middle of the night against the tree, and decides to sleep in her bedroll for the rest of the night.

In the morning Citlali rouses Akatzin, who always prefers another hour of sleep whenever he wakes up. They set out from their little grove back toward the indigene cottage. It's a strenuous walk back to the farm with their full packs and it's made worse by the chilly clouds that have crowded in on the morning. On their previous visits Citlali and Akatzin chattered excitedly on their way to and back from the smallfolk, marveling at the curiousness of such people, at the historic nature of the event. With all such awe exhausted now they pass the time by looking out at the landscape. In the light of day the terrain is not so different from home; there are places in Atlacal that look much like this. Yet when she looks out at this land she can't help but see the little changes of leaves and earth and wildlife that tell her that the teotl here is different. No - not different, just unknown, uncontemplated.

They come upon and over the hill of the indigene farm and as they arrive at the cottage they're greeted by an odd sight. The strange deer without antlers that the indigene have, the one that Akatzin examined the day before, is now outside of its pen and fixed to a cart. The deer doesn't resist this, nor does it look tense or wary. Cleyton and his son Lomys stand near it, loading bushels of wheat behind onto the cart behind the deer. During a break in the work - and much to Citlali and Akatzin's surprise - Cleyton actually reaches out to place his hand on the deer and the deer allows it.

"I thought they were going to eat it," says Akatzin, "I had no idea they tamed it."

"Do you think they grow wild like that," says Citlali, "without antlers?"  
"I think so," says Akatzin, "I didn't see any stumps on it's head yesterday."

"Perhaps it's a doe," offers Citlali.

"Hah," says Akatzin, "I guess you aren't paying attention to the entire deer."

Cleyton spots them and waves in greeting and Lomys follows suit when his father notices him failing to do so. Cleyton invites the two to come closer and see their strange deer. Citlali doesn't let herself get too close for fear that it might begin to kick or jump at the presence of strangers but Akatzin approaches it with confidence.

"It's the same one from before alright, I remember these spots," says Akatzin. He looks the animal in its eyes, but the animal seems bored and finds something else to look at.

Cleyton says something in his foreign tongue, and motions to the cart. It's unclear what his meaning is, and after a moment Lomys gets up on the cart, just behind the deer. When he grabs a hold of the leather straps tied to the deer, and when Citlali sees they attach to wooden prongs attached to the cart, she understands what's happening.

"The deer is going to pull the cart," says Citlali.

"What?" says Akatzin. He looks from Lomys to the deer's leather straps, then at Cleyton, who is urging him on.

"That seems dangerous," says Akatzin, "it'll kick. Or run. Won't it?"

"It didn't kick Lomys," says Citlali.

"Well of course not, it knows him," says Akatzin.

"Well it knows you too doesn't it? You saw it yesterday," says Citlali.

Akatzin ponders this.

Not bothering to wait Citlali hops onto the back of the cart and looks back to Cleyton. He says something in his indigene tongue that sounds like assurance. The twins in the cottage, now realizing who's arrived, swarm outside to Citlali and say their greetings and farewells.

"Hello! Hello!" they shout in unison.

"Hello little ones!" says Citlali.

"You farewell?" asks Calissa.

"Yes," says Citlali, "I have to say farewell now."

Akatzin smiles and hops on to the back of the cart as well, not willing to look hesitant in front of the twins.

"Farewell! Farewell!" cry the twins in unison.

"Farewell little ones!" says Citlali.

Cleyton says something to his wife and then hops up onto the front with his son. Lomys passes him the leather straps at which point Cleyton whip cracks them up and down. The deer without antlers makes a high pitched bellow and the cart sets off, prompting Citlali and Akatzin to grab onto the wooden sides for leverage. It takes a moment for the fact that they're moving to hit them. What a clever little trick these indigene have come up with. The wooden wheels bounce up over a rock and they gasp and latch their arms onto the wooden sides once more as the cart jostles back and forth. To their surprise it holds together despite the roughness of the road. The relief that they won't have to walk all the way to this indigene town settles over them and they soon become lulled into a pleasant trance by the soft clip clops of the deer's hooves striking the earth, and watch the farmer's cottage shrink into the distance.

A rolling green landscape of plains and forest meanders by. The route the indigene take brings them closer to the coast and if she squints Citlali can see the blue hint of the ocean in the far distance. The clouds have overtaken the sun now and the day has taken on a gray cast but the sun still glimmers on the far waves. In her immediate vicinity the trees begin to overtake the plains and although the path travels across a hill the sight of the sea is lost after a few minutes. The trees remind Citlali of the trees in northern Shalisan. By the position of the sun she can tell that they're travelling south, down the coast. Whatever city the indigene are taking them to must be one that the Ixtehuelton went past on it's first run. I wonder how we missed it, Citlali thinks to herself, we must have started too far north when we first split off the from the other two ships. She goes to offer this idea to Akatzin but he doesn't turn to her - his gaze is locked on the forest uphill.

"Akatzin..." says Citlali.

"Shh," he says, "there are people out there."

"Where?"

"Don't look," says Akatzin. His eyes wander upward as if in thought. "They're trying to avoid being seen," his brows furrow in thought, "No one good tries to avoid being seen."  
"Wait, they're following us? Are you sure? For how long?" asks Citlali.

"I don't know, I noticed them an hour ago, but I thought I was seeing things," says Akatzin, "I thought it was maybe just an animal moving in the woods at first, but I saw something gleam."

Citlali looks now and sees only trees. She scans behind them toward the two lined trail of deer hooves but sees nothing on the road. After a moment, a ways off to her side, the form of a man shifts and moves and disappears behind a tree trunk before she can get a good look at it.

"We have to tell the indigene," gasps Citlali.

"Tell them how?"

"We have the other Book of Talking Leaves, we can show them," says Citlali.

"What if they stop? We don't want them to stop just yet," says Akatzin.

"I'll tell them to hurry, it shouldn't be hard," says Citlali, "then we move from hurry to danger and they'll know not to stop."

Akatzin considers this, nods, and begins searching through his pack for the book.

Citlali tries to get herself up on the cart to get the attention of Cleyton and Lomys and realizes that they too are watching the forest with squinting eyes. They give up on hiding and step out of the underbrush now on the road ahead of the cart. Lomys looks to his father but Cleyton only looks on at the people coming out of the forest. There are five of them and all walk with the gruff insouciant swagger of bandits, dressed in the mismatched tatters of previous conquests. Two of them carry iron head axes while the other three brandish swords in scabbards. Lomys says something to his father, something serious, something urgent. Citlali watches all of this without moving.

"Bandits," whispers Citlali.

Akatzin - hand still in pack - pulls out the book but tosses it aside to search frantically for - yes - the nexima. The smoking mirror. The obsidian dagger with a sheath as long as his forearm. There is a disbelief in his eyes as he holds it. Citlali looks through her pack as well and finds her own, identical to his, and unsheathes it to reveal the black obsidian blade. Her reflection in it is warped and shadowy but she can still make out her eyes along the thin edge.

"Maybe I was wrong," says Citlali, "maybe they're not bandits, maybe they're just lost."

"Maybe," says Akatzin. He unsheathes his now too and looks at his own reflection, "but we have to prepare for all outcomes, right?"  
Citlali looks unsure. She recalls her dream.  
"Citlali, come on, we were trained for this," says Akatzin.

"I almost failed melee training," says Citlali.

"But you didn't, did you?" asks Akatzin.

One of the bandits hails Cleyton with a raised hand and Cleyton reins in his deer to a stop. Lomys' silence is tense and angry and Citlali sees him reach for something with his right hand, on the side of the cart the bandits can't see. Cleyton says some friendly words and smiles a simpletons smile. The bandits are unmoved and speak in a bored monotone. Cleyton laughs too hard and gives some reply, he points to the wheat and then to Citlali and Akatzin. The bandits' faces, rough and grimy and littered with scars, appear displeased. Their leader, a thin man with a sword, makes a suggestion, gives a shrug. The other four bandits chuckle with malice. Cleyton does not laugh and does not smile. He begins to respond with something when Lomys interjects, his words full of ire and spit. The leader points to Citlali. The bandits nod and say nothing else.

Citlali's grip tightens.

Lomys says something angry, and the moment that follows feels long.

Lomys is the first to get off the cart and as he does so he reveals the hatchet he hid under his seat. After a moment Akatzin and Citlali follow suit with their nexima in hand, not wanting to be caught flat footed. When the bandits see Lomys' hatchet their eyes go wide with surprise but they give a cocky chuckle. One of them, one with an axe, goes so far as to give a loud belly laugh. Cleyton is still trying to calm all the armed people around him but with each passing second it becomes more and more clear that this will not end quietly. He says something firm to his son. Lomys doesn't respond.

One of the men, with a sword still in its scabbard, walks forward toward Lomys, arms wide and daring him to take a swing. Lomys accepts the challenge and in a flash he buries the hatchet into the mans shoulder. The wet thud of the strike hangs in the air for a moment before the man screams. The other four rush forward and Citlali finds herself running up to meet them. Before she knows it she's on top of one of the other men with a sheathed sword. The bandit, distracted at the sight of his bloodied compatriot, only looks at her in surprise for a brief second before Citlali shoves the nexima into his abdomen, pointed up toward his soft innards. It does not strike her at that moment that she is killing the man, she just sees her nexima go in until the hilt. The bandit doubles over in pain and she strikes again into the center of his back and can feel bone shift the arc of her blade. Her fingers grip so tightly around the hilt they hurt.

Akatzin wrestles with another bandit, trying to keep him from swinging his sword.

Lomys' hatchet smashes into the head of the bandit he's already maimed.

Cleyton reaches for a bandit's axe only to have it's pommel slammed into his jaw.

The last bandit, also wielding an axe, barrels toward at Citlali.

A grey blur of iron cuts across and she croches down to dodge it. Citlali's blood is a torrent in and out of her heart as she stumbles back and points it out toward this new bandit. The bandit takes another swing, overhead, and Citlali jumps back. She feels the wind of it against her skin. A wordless panic seeps through her mind; a cold realization; the next blood spilled could be hers. The bandit takes another swing and Citlali ducks under once more, tries to move to the man's exposed side, but she stumbles and falls to a knee. The bandit sets his eyes on hers and for a surreal second she notices that the bandit's irises are blue. She's never seen blue irises before, never could have guessed at the strange way the color stands out in the center of a murderous blood red gaze. Citlali raises her nexima as she struggles to get to her feet but it's not long enough to reach him. The bandit raises his axe up to swing but before it comes down he gasps in pain as a black blade erupts from his abdomen - interrupting his wind up and causing him to swing blindly.

Citlali takes the opportunity to scramble to her feet and raises her nexima high, reaching up and plunging it into the bandit's neck. The man struggles for a few moments as the blood rushes out of him, but it's only after his body has gone slack on the ground that Citlali collects herself and notices Akatzin, standing but only just, his arms are wrapped around his abdomen. He takes a faltering step to try and steady himself but he misses his footing and falls to the ground. The red of his life spills out onto the dark foreign soil.

"Akatzin!" cries Citlali. She takes a step toward him as he coughs up blood.

Through labored breathing he says: "one more."

Citlali whips around at the realization and sees the last of the bandits in a standoff against Lomys. The two stand across from each other, eyes angry and locked in. The adjusts the grip on his axe and realizes that with Citlali on her feet he's outnumbered two to one. His eyes lose something of their rage and gain a slight uncertainty, but he doesn't lower his axe. All wait to see how the others move. He wants to run, let him run, Citllali thinks to herself, we need to tend to Akatzin and Cleyton. Cleyton. On the ground she sees Cleyton, a ragged slash across his neck. The expression on his face is of fear and his chest neither rises nor falls. The last bandit stands near his corpse. That's the man that killed him, Citlali thinks to herself. She looks to Lomys but can't see his face - she sees only the calm and steady grip he has on his hatchet. He won't let this one run.

Citlali takes a step to steady herself and the bandit takes a step back. Lomys steps forward - the man makes for the woods and Lomys gives chase.

"No," whispers Citlali, "No, NO! WAIT!"

But it's too late by then, the bandit and Lomys disappear into the thicket.

 _Akatzin_.

Citlali drops her nexma and rushes to her pack before going to Akatzin. He lays on his side, arms still wrapped around his belly, legs curled up.

"I can save you," says Citlali. She hunts through her gear for needle and thread to start sewing the wound.

"You did well," says Akatzin, "you did better than me. You killed two and I only killed one."

"Let me see the wound."

Akatzin says nothing.

"Let me see it Akatzin!"

"I can't."

"Why not?!"

"I can feel - " begins Akatzin, "I can feel warmth in my hands. I- I didn't think it would be like this. I don't think I can let go."

Citlali looks at his clutching hands. In the spaces between his fingers she can see the deep red of organ flesh. Her trained eyes leave no doubt in her mind. It's more than she can heal - it'd be difficult even for a blood priest. And the nearest one of those is at the Ixtehuetlon, a weeks journey away, at least.

"You…," begins Citlali, "you- we- I can sew you up, we can keep you going until we find a healer, the indigene must have healers of some kind, some basic herbs we could use-"

"No," says Akatzin. A thin frailty strains his voice, "they won't. And even if they did, I won't make it that long. I've lost too much blood already."

"Akatzin-"

"I don't want to die a lingering death," says Akatzin, "I don't want that after life. Better that I die here. Xolotl will judge that I died in battle and allow my spirit to go east. Well, more east than here, anyway."

A weak smile, a labored breath.

Citlali can't bring herself to say anything. The tears flood through all at once.

"The dagger," says Akatzin.

Citlali nods and takes the black obsidian in dagger in hand.

"Until we meet in the Underworld," says Citlali.


	6. CITLALI AND LOMYS DESPAIR AT THEIR SITUATION AND FIND COMMON CAUSE

In all the commotion Citlali didn't even realize that the deer and the cart had run off down the road. When Akatzin died she sat very still for a long time.

Out of the forest comes Lomys. Did he kill the bandit? Citlali asks herself. His hatchet is bloody but is it blood from one man or two? Lomys walks back toward the road with purpose, his face possessed of a far away look until, after finally noticing Citlali and the corpses and the lack of deer and cart, he stops to survey the aftermath.

He walks over to his dead father. He drops to his knees. Citlali wants to say something but he wouldn't understand her, and she's not sure that Lomys ever liked her or Akatzin anyway. Perhaps it's best to let him grieve in peace.

I need to bury Akatzin, Citlali thinks to herself, his life will nourish these strange lands. The grave need not be deep either - Tlatetl accepts gifts of warrior's corpses freely. There's a knot in her throat. She reprimands herself for being so upset, after all, Akatzin goes on to a better place. But that means he's not here any more, and now she's out amongst indigene all alone. There's a small shovel in her pack to dig the grave but Citlali realizes her pack was still on the cart when the deer ran off. Akatzin's pack however appears to have fallen off in the commotion. At least she'll have something to remember him by.

Citlali begins digging on the side of the road, far enough away that it won't risk being disturbed. Better to bury him quick before she must witness nature reclaim what is hers. The soil at least is not tough or rocky. The shovel is made of tough gold-obsidian and it makes short work of the soil, but digging a grave is still a hard task nonetheless. Lomys looks over at the sounds of digging and watches her work for a few moments. Do these indigene bury their dead? Citlali wonders to herself. She stops shoveling, looks over to him. Their eyes meet. His are angry for a moment but the rage dissipates and they go blank and far away again. Citlali worries that he can't control himself now, that something inside him has given way. Lomys opens his mouth to speak but he stops himself; he spots Akatzin's corpse. Even if they could speak the same language, what could she say?

"I'm sorry," says Citlali.

Lomys says something in his foreign tongue.

There is a moment of silence.

Citlali starts to resume digging but Lomys stops her and points to the shovel. Citlali offers it to him and he takes it and takes a turn digging. When he slows down Citlali asks for the shovel and they trade back and forth, digging a pair of graves for their dead. Once their bodies have been laid down and the graves refilled Lomys drops to his knees and clasps his hands together in prayer. Citlali stands with her head inclined downward and beseeches Xolotl to show Akatzin's and Cleyton's spirits east.

The corpses of the bandits are left in the sun. Their spirits can find their own way to the Underworld.

Citlali turns to Lomys, her only remaining human tie to this place. The young man from the farm gets up on his feet and takes the bloody hatchet with him his walk back to the road.

"Lomys?" asks Citlali as he walks away.

Lomys doesn't respond. Once at the road he starts walking in the direction of his family's farm. Citlali grabs her pack, makes sure to lay hands on her nexima and keep it close, and then goes and follows behind the indigene. There can be no more travelling alone - and she's not sure where to go from here besides. As they rode on the cart for hours at a good pace, it'll take until sundown to get back to the farm. Citlali picks up her pace to catch up to Lomys who shows no signs of slowing down for her. Lomys doesn't invite her to follow him but he doesn't turn her away either. He doesn't look at her at all.

The cottage comes into view not too long after the stars begin to appear in the sky. There is no hearth fire from within, which is strange. Citlali is unsure if Lomys notices this; he seems unmoved by the sight of his home. When they reach the cottage door however, Lomys loses himself. The door is open and inside one can see the signs of struggle. The chairs and table are thrown about, the shelves are crooked, and the various everyday objects of life are strewn across the floor.

Lomys cries out to his mother, to his little brother and sister, but there is no response.

Citlali looks around and sees no sign of any of them in the little cottage but Lomys searches anyway, overturning the chairs that he can already see behind, wandering into his parents bedroom and shuffling the hay of their bed, turning over blankets that are flat on the ground. It would be comical if not for the look on Lomys' face, a mad eyed mix of disbelief and despair. Could it have been the last bandit, Citlali thinks to herself, could he have had more friends? Did this whole family die because they went out of their way to help guide her?

"I'm sorry," says Citlali, her head lowered in tacit guilt.

Lomys looks at her. The anger is back in his eyes and Citlali takes a step back, moves her hand toward her nexima. In the dark Lomys doesn't see the motion. He ignores her, runs outside, over to the small shed where the deer was housed and where they kept their harvest, shouting for his family as if they might not have heard him yet. Citlali watches from the cottage, hears him shout and clatter about inside, but still she hears no one answer him. Lomys leaves the shed and looks out into the dark landscape, shouts once more, then falls to his knees, screaming out at the sky. She doesn't need to know his language to know his words.

Citlali wants to tell him that they should leave this farm, this cottage. That whoever came for his family may be watching, that they may return to finish the both of them. These would be difficult things to convey she imagines, even with the help of the Book of Talking Leaves. After a moment Lomys rises to his feet once more and begins shouting anew, his voice straining as he runs himself ragged overturning every stone on his family's land. He won't listen. He still can't believe what his eyes are telling him, why would he care what she has to say? If Citlali had sense she would go off on her own to avoid being caught with him. Instead she sits outside the cottage, possessed by the curious nihilism of her people, thinking: if the bandits should return for us, then so be it.

Citlali falls asleep while sitting outside waiting. She wakes up leaning against the rough stone walls of the place and sees Lomys asleep in the middle of the field.

From here she could turn back and find the Ixtehuetlon on her own, couldn't she? The map she had was lost along with the deer and the cart, but she still has a lodestone and a needle - could she find her way back? Would there be more bandits? Citlali and Akatzin ran into none on the way here, but that could have been a lark. And what's more, this time she would be making the journey alone. An easy mark.

Lomys sits up in the field. His shoulders slump. He stares at an old stump at the edge of the field for a good long while. He looks back at Citlali and their eyes meet. He gets up and walks toward her.

"Cuy," he says.

It takes Citlali a moment to remember the word.

"Cuy?" she asks, "the city? You still want to go there?"

Lomys points to himself, then to Citlali, then west, and says: "Cuy."


	7. THE LORD OF STARFALL HOSTS A FOREIGN DELEGATION

Early one morning a large foreign ship is espied by riders on patrol, out along the southwestern coast of Dorne. The pace of the foreign ship suggests that it will reach Castle Starfall, up north near the Torrentine's delta, in a few days. The riders decide to send a raven to make House Dayne aware of these foreigners - they must be foreigners, nothing else can explain the strange make of their curious swan ships - and to announce the coming of outriders who will give a more detailed report of this strange vessel.

Their raven flies north along the coast riding the warm thermals rising up from the dry Dornish landscape. Once in the ravenry of Castle Starfall the raven surrenders it's message to Maester Cidrio, who in turn delivers it to the high tower of Allyria Dayne. But the words make no lasting impression on the stewardess of House Dayne. She thinks to herself: if the ship is foreign then that means they aren't from the Sunspear. If they're not from Sunspear then they can't be from Prince Doran, which means it has nothing to do with her cousin Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar. And that is what's important.

So the raven's message goes unremarked upon.

One morning a few days later, up in the same southward facing tower, Lady Allyria looks out toward the Torrentine's Bay. From her pale stone window frame she can make out the line in the bay where the freshwater of the Torrentine meets the saltwater of the Sunset Sea and the color of the waves change from a clean blue to murky azure. Out on the blueness a few merchant ships float idly under the pleasant morning sun and in the distance a few of House Dayne's own galley's patrol the waters. In the farther distance she can see the shape of a large ship approaching. She thinks about the message from the outriders again. Essosi traders most likely, supposes Allyria of the foreign ships, men from the Free Cities looking for a market. Ser Brownhill would best be suited in dealing with them - his dark skin seems to put Essosi at ease - and Maester Cidrio, fluent in eight languages, will accompany him to make sure that there are no misunderstandings. A simple matter. By the time her lady's maids come to her room to dress her she's already forgotten about the approaching vessel. As she looks at herself in the mirror with her violet blue eyes, smoothes her honey brown hair, and adjusts her lavender dress, she remembers only that she needn't be worried about them.

When the outriders finally arrive at Castle Starfall the next day they make a tremendous amount of noise. From inside the feast hall where Allyria breaks her fast with her nephew Edric Dayne, the young Lord of Starfall, she can hear the faint sounds of shouting in the distance as the castle's guardsmen search for Ser Brownhill. Allyria's ear perk up but she doesn't let it bother her - Ser Brownhill will make her aware of whatever she needs to be made aware of. Edric for his part seems not to hear the shouting, or if he does, he ignores it. The yellowed haired young boy has ignored a lot of things ever since he returned from the north.

After breakfast and after the commotion dies down Ser Brownhill finds Allyria in one of the hallways of Starfall and says to her:

"My Lady, you must speak to the outriders. The Maester and the little Lord should speak to them as well."

"What's the matter?" asks Allyria.

"It would be easier if you simply heard the men out yourself my Lady," says Ser Brownhill.

Lady Allyria, stewardess of Starfall until young Edric comes of age, summons a gathering in the Lord's solar to hear the rider's report. The solar is made of pale stone, like all of Starfall, shined so that the light that comes in from the grand glass windows reflects off of angled walls and illuminates the room. Allyria and little Lord Edric sit at the head of the room as if they were king and queen while Maester Cidrio and Ser Brownhill stand on either sides of them, ready to offer counsel. Along the left side of the room on a raised platform a few representatives of the other noble families of Starfall gather together with a bland curiosity to see what the business in the royal court will be today.

The guardsmen sent as outriders enter the solar with the regular fanfare. Ser Brownhill introduces them, the two men approach the stewardess and the little Lord and they bend the knee. They are asked to give their report and so they begin describing what they saw:

A ship made of a light colored wood - almost yellowish - painted in clean streaks of green, red, black, and white and with a number of oddly stylized glyphs of flowers or perhaps animals carved into it's sides. The vessel is massive - three times as long as one of House Dayne's war galley's at least - consisting of four tall masts flying flags in the shape of triangles, points flapping in the wind, each triangle containing a curious and colorful herald of unknown origin: one of three red and green lines, one of four black and white feathers, and one of a strange yellow cross. At the ship's bow, carved out of jade, is a figurehead in the shape of a woman in a dress and gold jewelry, her two arms stretched up in front of her as if offering a gift. All in all a strange thing to behold, as vibrant as it was alien.

"I can't say I've ever heard of banners such as those..." says Maester Cidrio ponderously. The wrinkles in his face seem to deepen and his gray brows furrow as he peers into the distance and thinks. He leans back a little and the rings of his Maester's chain clink together.

"Some creative sellswords then," offers Lady Allyria.

"Not just sellswords my lady. Our outriders here are describing carracks - swan ships, like the ones from the Summer Isles - vessels that are beyond the monetary reach of common sellswords," says Maester Cidrio. Then turning back to the riders, "and, you say you saw one with four masts? Hah. My lady, a four masted carrack would be larger than anything that has ever set sail before from, well, from anywhere that I know of"

A brief silence falls over the Lord's solar.

"Are you sure this is what you saw?" asks Cidrio of the two riders.

The men nod.

Maester Cidrio thinks a while longer. Allyria can see the copper ring that signifies a mastery of history jingle about his chain. A back and forth between caution and curiosity plays across the old man's face as he ponders the riders' report.

"So the ship is big," says Ser Brownhill. Unwilling to wait for the Maester to speak, he continues, "which means the owners are dangerous."

"Or simply rich. That's the real question isn't it? Are they trading vessels or warships?" asks Allyria. This question is addressed to Brownhill and the Maester, but also to the two riders.

"I saw no catapults or archers posted at their rails milady," says one of the riders, a gruff dark skinned sandy Dornishman, "but I saw a good number of men on board the vessel."

"Men  _and_  women, milady," says the other rider, this one an olive skinned salty Dornishman.

"The presence of women doesn't necessarily mean anything," says Ser Brownhill, "the Sand Snakes are women."

"It could just as easily be that the women are traders," says Cidrio.

Another contemplative pause.

"What else did you see?" asks Allyria of the outriders.

"The first riders who spotted the ships said there were two of them, milady," says the dark-skinned sandy Dornishman, "and some local fishermen say that they saw those two ships, as well as one other, farther out from shore some days ago."

"So there are three ships then?" asks Ser Brownhill.

"Yes milord," says the olive-skinned salty Dornishman, "the one approaching Castle Starfall was the largest of the three, but no one along our coasts knows where the other two went."

"Where the other ships four-masted vessels as well?" asks Maester Cidrio.

"No Maester," says the salty Dornishman, "the fisherman say the others were just three masted."

"Still impressive," says Cidrio.

"Thank you for your report," says Lady Allyria. With the slightest of nods she bids them farewell. At this signal the riders bow their heads then turn and exit the lord's solar.

"Shall I rally the riders my lady?" asks Ser Brownhill. "We will want to take precautions in case this four-masted ship is unfriendly."

"We can send an entourage to meet with them but I don't think we need to rally anything. Even if they have a larger ship, we still have our galleys, as well as riders along the coast. I can't imagine they'll want to start trouble with just their one ship," says Allyria.

"Their three ships, my lady," corrects Ser Brownhill.

"Only one of which has entered the bay," says Allyria, "the others aren't our concern, just yet."

"No they wouldn't risk it, especially not with a ship of such expensive make," says Maester Cidrio, more to himself than to the court, "a four masted ship is, well - I would need to alert the Citadel. This would be the first sighting of such a thing since the time of Old Valyria! This could be historic, if it's true."

"If it's true and if they're friendly," says Ser Brownhill, perplexed by the old Maester's curious new energy, "we should still plan for the worst."

Allyria is about to open her mouth to speak but becomes aware suddenly that her nephew hasn't yet said a single thing.

"Perhaps we ought to hear what the Lord of Starfall has to say," says Lady Allyria.

She looks over to her left where her nephew Edric Dayne sits on the pale stone throne of Starfall. Two and ten years and only just returned to her from his wanderings in the north. But beyond his fanciful accounts of a resurrected Beric Dondarrion and a fugitive Arya Stark he doesn't speak any more about his time as a squire. Or about anything at all. The boy is not morose or moping - he's simply silent. At first Allyria could understand the tendency - the life of a squire can sometimes lead young boys to sights of carnage - but it's been four months since his return and he remains just as taciturn as when he first arrived. Allyria's made it a point to defer to his judgement on matters before the council both as his due as Lord but also to try and draw him out. It doesn't usually work. The boy always goes along with what the council decides with a silent nod of the head and he hardly ever inquires about the reasoning behind the choices made.

Now, however- now she can see his dark blue eyes looking up from their favorite spot on the floor and watching the two riders walking out of the solar. His pale yellow hair almost looks unsettled, wild, as if he'd only just woken up. Like Maester Cidrio he also stares into the far distance of thought.

"They're foreigners?" asks Lord Edric Dayne.

Maester Cidrio, still lost in thought, mouths the word four.

"I believe they are, aren't they Maester?" asks Lady Allyria.

"Hmm? Ah, yes, of course, they'd have to be," says Cidrio, "whoever could finance such a feat of shipbuilding would need to be some foreign nobility or city-state. Someone with a shipyard, someone who employs highly skilled craftsmen. I suppose they could have commandeered the ship but considering what armaments carracks tend to have, that seems unlikely."

Edric thinks for a moment.

"Emissaries ought to be well received by the lord of the castle, so as to avoid any undue misunderstandings," proclaims Edric.

Up on the platform where the nobles of Starfall watch there comes a wave of murmuring. Many of them haven't heard Edric speak since his return.

"A wise decision my Lord," says Ser Brownhill with no small amount of surprise, "but perhaps it would be best if I spoke to them on your behalf."

"I would agree with Ser Brownhill," says Lady Allyria. Also surprised to hear her nephew speak, she begins slowly, "...he's a reliable hand in diplomacy and I'm sure he's up to the task." The boy is too young for this sort of thing, Allyria thinks to herself. It's wonderful that he seems engaged for once, but why this of all things?

"Ser Brownhill will escort me," says Edric, "should the Lord of Starfall ask for counsel from his head military man, he will ask for it."

Allyria, a little surprised to see her shy nephew speak with such authority, lets the matter lie. Perhaps the time has come to let him make his own decisions.

Messengers are sent ahead to inform the guards at the docks that they should prepare for the arrival of their Lord. Edric rides off with Ser Brownhill, Maester Cidrio, and thirty fighters, all on horseback headed down toward the docks of Starfall. Lady Allyria watches them leave from atop the Palestone Sword, the tallest of Starfall's towers, and can see their horses kick up dust as they shrink with distance. Out past them toward the the bay she can see the foreign ship approaching from the opposite direction. The four masted ship is impressive to behold even at this distance - it dwarfs the fishing boats of the smallfolk and it looks like it wouldn't have much trouble against her House's war galleys.

All around the dock she can see the smallfolk congregating, a jumbling mass of dark silhouettes, gathering around the water to gawk at the incoming arrivals. As the ship pulls into the harbor the sails are pulled up and its figurehead, the woman offering a gift, eases alongside one of the long wooden docks.

What would foreigners want with Starfall?, Allyria asks herself. It could be that they're on their way to Oldtown or the Citadel and simply got lost. But if they the have knowledge to make a four masted ship, how could they not have maps? They might be far flung travelers from distant Essosi lands, one of the more remote and enterprising Free Cities, perhaps. If that's the case then it's good that Edric went to go see them - they may be diplomats, and House Dayne cannot afford to be turning away diplomats. Allyria turns away from the window and sends for the kitchens to prepare a feast fit for a delegation of nobles. She makes it clear to the servants that they're to slaughter the fattest heifer, to use the good virgin olive oil, and to uncork some of the dark Dornish vintage, the kind that's thick as blood and sweet to the taste.

The maids and the cooks set to work but Allyria doesn't go down to the feast hall or the kitchens to oversee them. Many of the servants have been around since back when Alistaire and Arthur and Ashara were still alive, back when Allyria - youngest of the four - would wander through the kitchens helping Old Meria, the head cook, with whatever needed doing, back before the whirlwind years of Robert's Rebellion, before she knew how to tie a noose. The bustle of the kitchens is too much of a reminder, and so instead she remains in her high tower where she can be alone with her thoughts. Edric lives on and he must have a caretaker, and while Ser Brownhill and Maester Cidrio are good men, they are not the same as blood family. And there is no chance that the Darkstar will be able to shape him, not if she has anything to say about it.

Allyria touches the necklace around her neck: a slender chain holding a mount made of the same fallen star-stuff as the greatsword Dawn, holding in place a flawless diamond the size of a grape. The metal of it is pale and has an almost translucent quality, like a kind of ephemeral ivory, furthering the illusion that the necklace is holding a fallen star, the herald of her House.

It's late afternoon when the Lord of Starfall departs and evening when he returns. Once everything is done she goes back up the Palestone Sword to see if she can see the men approaching. The reason for their lateness becomes clear: the foreigners all come on foot. In two lines they march, soldiers with dark brown skin wearing feathered helms, red and green cloaks, and leather-like armor, twenty in each row. Between the two rows walk two others, these dressed in blue cloaks. Around them ride House Dayne's men and leading the entire procession is Ser Brownhill, Maester Cidrio and Lord Edric. Allyria sees them approach the castle gates and Ser Brownhill rides up to signal the guards to let them in.

Only the two foreigners dressed in blue, bringing curious leather packs, accept the invitation to dinner; the others stay outside in the castle courtyard, eating supplies they brought and setting up some simple tents as if they were bivouacking in the wilderness.

The two ambassadors - a man named Yaotzin and a woman named Iyali - make an interesting sight, seated there at the long feast table with the bannermen of castle Starfall. Master Cidrio tried talking to them in each of the eight languages he knows but it was only after he was done trying that they simply pointed to themselves and sounded out their names. Maester Cidrio, hungry to sate his curiosity, followed them throughout the castle proper as Ser Brownhill lead them to the dining hall, pestering them with questions and switching between languages when he did so. Allyria couldn't keep up with his line of questioning but could tell he was getting nowhere. The two foreigners handled his pestering with grace, and seemed somehow accustomed to dealing with this sort of communication barrier.

Yaotzin, a man with skin like a Sandy Dornishman but with cheekbones that place his ancestry elsewhere, has long fine black hair that is pulled back into a simple knot so that the tattoos on his face are clear for all to see. In black ink, a stylized pattern, meant to be a fire perhaps, reaches up the side of his face and up to his left eye. Square gold earrings with abstract animal designs adorn his ears and their weight makes his earlobes droop a little. Presently Yaotzin sits at the table with his arms at his sides. The three gold rings on his brows rise slightly as he smiles to people who meet his gaze.

Iyali is lighter than her partner but her hair is just as black, although she wears hers loose around her shoulders. She has no tattoos on her face but she does have a jade stud in the spot between her lips and her chin as well as small gold piercings all up and down her ears. As Iyali turns her head back and forth, taking in the surroundings of the feast hall, Allyria can see black ink etched into the back of her neck, a tattoo that disappears under the collar of her tunic. Like Yaotzin, Iyali makes sure to smile when she catches someone's eye.

As the feast is brought in by the serving maids House Dayne's banner men chat and speculate about the origin of the foreigners. Although Maester Cidrio tries to explain the various reasons the foreigners  _aren't_ Yi Ti - chief among them being that Yi Ti is one of the eight languages he has under his belt and the foreigners don't recognize it - the theory that they're Yi Ti takes hold of the hall anyway. After all, what else could they be? The great houses of Westeros don't sail such ships, and neither do the Free Cities for that matter. The Summer Islanders and the merchants of Qarth make trips out this way every now and again, but they usually head to the Citadel if they're heading anywhere. That leaves only Yi Ti. And really, it makes sense: if anyone has the coin and the expertise to sail all across the world it would be the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, where - as stories go - the royalty dine on exotic fish spiced with silver and jade. At this reminder everyone in the hall become a bit more friendly toward their guests. Ser Brownhill notes that even the foreigner's soldiers, common guardsmen presumably, wore gold rings on their faces and fingers openly, in the style of one accustomed to wealth. The other bannermen agree: the captain of the foreigner's little force wears feathers on his helm that have the color and glint of emeralds, and may be made of same. And did you notice their weapons? Sturdy wooden planks like elongated oars, lined with razor sharp shards of dragonglass all around the edges; curved wooden bludgeons that resemble the fang of some massive beast that hold in place a hunk of a strange type of dragonglass - a type that catches the light at certain angles to reveal gold flakes just under its glassy surface. They are brutal and beautiful things to behold.

One of the bannermen, a contemplative sort with a small territory on the coast, wonders aloud if there might be islands out there on the Sunset Sea. Like the Summer Isles but farther away or perhaps even maybe another Sothoryos or Uthryos, given the size of their ships. No one pays him any mind - they're too busy wondering how the foreigners could carve dragonglass with such clean lines.

Lord Edric Dayne doesn't take part in these discussions but he watches his guests intently from the head of the table. In the boys eyes Allyria can see wonder and awe and she is reminded suddenly of the giggly young boy he was only a few years before. After a moment Lord Edric raises his goblet to toast. Ser Brownhill notices this and follows suit immediately. Allyria raises hers as well, uncertain, and Maester Cidrio raises his a few moments after returning from his ponderings. Ser Brownhill taps his goblet to get the attention of the bannermen. Their muttering and confused looks settle down and their cups rise up, so that after a few moments Yaotzin and Iyali are the only ones left not raising their drinks. They look out at the hall, then at each other, then pick up the wine goblets before them and raise them up in imitation.

"To our guests," says Lord Edric Dayne, "whoever they may be."

The bannermen have a laugh and repeat: "to our guests!"

And so the eating beings in earnest.

Both Yaotzin and Iyali watch their hosts use knives and forks at first and struggle to imitate the motions with their own hands. As they are the guests they're seated near the head of the table along with Lord Dayne and his close advisors. Maester Cidrio and young Edric can hardly take their eyes off the strangers, marvelling at the way they put the basics of fine dining together. Ser Brownhill, seemingly aware of the strangeness of the situation gives Allyria a wry look. Allyria, filled with a sense of surreality as she sits across the table from some tattooed foreigner from half a world away, doesn't notice him. Yaotzin has trouble figuring whether he wants to have his fork in the left hand or the right, while Iyali stabs into her serving of pork with an elbow high into the air. She looks around to watch her hosts' response to this. Some of the bannermen chuckle to see her struggling, and Iyali takes this as a sign to pull the fork out and try again.

"Like this," says Edric. He holds up his knife and fork and demonstrates how the tines should face down and hold the meat while the knife cuts. Yaotzin gets the hang of it and places a piece of duck into his mouth. He gives a bemused look at the taste but chews happily and swallows, making a show of enjoying the food.

Well mannered, if a bit odd, Allyria thinks to herself.

When the feast concludes Allyria thanks her bannerman and asks that the council of House Dayne be left to confer with the emissaries. Once the servants - wide eyed at the strangers - clear the table Iyali says something and reaches into her bag. She reveals a green book with the image of a sun on it's cover.

"Ah yes, they showed us this book when we first met them at the dock my Lord" says Maester Cidrio to Edric, "I think you will be as pleased as I to gaze upon it Lord Edric."

Iyali opens it to reveal two images. On one page is a picture of two people, with one giving the other a bushel of some exotic plant. On the other the recipient of the bushel has their hand placed on the giver's shoulder and has their head inclined in a nod. Both people have brown skin, just like the book's owners.

"Tlasohkamati," says Iyali. She and Yaotzin bows their heads like the person in the picture.

"You're welcome," says Edric.

With the aid of the book and some clever charades the foreigners begin communicating in earnest. They use their book to show that they're from somewhere far away, pointing to pictures and saying their foreign words. An image of a compass, a square thing containing the round centerpiece that is the lodestone, which Iyali uses this demonstrate a west to east journey; an image of a ship, like the one they sailed in on, then an image of a coast, then a sea, then a coast again.

"The sea," says Edric, "the Sunset Sea."

"Incredible," says Maester Cidrio.

"So they sailed across the Sunset Sea?" asks Ser Brownhill, "so then - then that  _would_  make them Yi Ti!"

"Where you paying no attention at all Darrion?," asks Maester Cidrio, "I studied that distant kingdom at the Citadel. These two don't hail from Yi Ti, or if they do, they're from some region never mentioned before. These people are something else."

"Could they be from Sothoryos or Ulthos?" offers Allyria. The words feel strange to hear aloud. Sothoryos or Ulthos are realms talked about only in stories, never in politics. But Allyria recalls the lone bannerman's musings, and now they no longer seem so far flung.

"No," says Edric, "they said they were from the west, those are to the south."

"They might have gotten turned around," says Ser Brownhill, "it's not such a difficult thing to do at sea."

"If they have the expertise to build four masted ships then they certainly have the expertise to draft star charts or other maps," says Maester Cidrio, "otherwise - well, otherwise it would be as if they invented a cart with square wheels. It wouldn't make any sense."

"So there are lands to the west of Westeros? Is that what we're meant to believe?" asks Allyria.

Yaotzin says something to Iyali and Iyali begins to search through the book for something in particular.

"There have been stories," says Maester Cidrio, "though none of them seriously believed."  
"What do the stories say?" asks Edric.

Iyali opens the book to pictures of two people dressed in blue like Yaotzin and herself. She smooths out the pages. These people in blue appear to be walking on a journey upon which they encounter another pair of people, dressed in curious leather pants and painted in streaks of red and yellow and white. The council of House Dayne is unsure what to make of this.

"The stories," begins Maester Cidrio, distracted by the images, "say that there is a land on the other side of the Sunset Sea, a land where there is no winter and no death." He ponders the pictures in the book for a moment, "But these are the rumors of sailors - sailors who, I will remind the assembled, also believe in merlings and kraken."

Iyali opens to another pair of pictures, one of a lush green forest with strange plants and the other a city, with great stone roads and stone buildings of a bizarre architecture.

"The sailors might be right," says Edric. He gains a faraway look in his eyes, "there are strange things in this world."


	8. NOCHTLI STANDS GUARD

The twenty Macuahuitl fighters set up their little camp on the inside wall near the gate of the indigene fortress. The central courtyard - a large field of dirt and muck corralled in by tall stone walls - is populated by indigene artisans that have set up shop in wooden stalls. Other indigne walk here and there, sometimes astride the great antlerless deer that inspire no small amount of awe in the hearts of the Atlacal. Captain Tenoch, leader of the group that escorted the ambassadors is cautious, orders the men to avoid interacting with the natives whenever possible: establishing relations is the role of the Itsmitl and they don't like clumsy soldiers complicating the diplomatic process. They're outnumbered a hundred to one besides, so avoiding misunderstandings is in everyone's best interest.

Nochtli is on first watch along with four others. This entails standing in an equi-distant semi-circle around the camp that the others set up against one of the stone walls of the fortress. Behind him Nochtli can hear his compatriots struggle to set up the wooden skeletons of the tent in this foreign muck. He himself feels his wooden sandals sink ever so slowly into this mud, but there's nothing to be done. At the very least however, as Nochtli must face outward in order to keep watch, he has ample time to take the strange folks hosting his troop.

The first and most notable thing is the paleness of their skin. Although the laborers - the blacksmiths and the farmers - have been touched by the sun, Nochtli notices that many have skin as white as limestone. How can this be? While on watch Nochtli is not permitted to speak unless addressed by his captain, so he can only listen to the speculation of his fellow fighters. Mixkoatl says that the color makes the indigene look frail, as if they had been pulled out of the womb too early and were forever diluted as a result. Tizoc points out something even more unusual: some of the pale indigene have hair in a shiny yellow color, almost like gold. Nochtli sees one such indigene now - a golden haired woman in a long red dress that looks uncomfortably warm. She, like many of the other indigene, wander over to the Macuahuitl's makeshift camp, and it isn't long until a small crowd gathers. For a moment Nochtli worries that he might have to push them back but the indigene guards - gruff men in iron armor - step in to make sure the other indigene don't get too close. Presumably this is some arrangement the ambassadors worked out with the man Nochtli saw them trying to talk to - the old man with a chain of oversized rings.

The indigene of the crowd point and gawk and scratch their heads. If Nochtli wasn't on guard he'd be doing the same right back at them.

"Look at that one," says Mixkoatl.

Nochtli can't see who he's pointing to but he knows who he has to be talking about: an indigne man with brown hair and pale skin and an impossibly bushy beard that seems like it goes right up to his eyes. The beard makes the indigene look more beast than man - an illusion aided by the thick brown hair all along his forearms.

"Ahh... well. Huh," says Tizoc, "do you think it grows on their faces like that all by itself? Or do you think they do something to help it along?"

"Why would you want a beard like that?" asks Mixkoatl, "he looks like an animal, and look-"  
"Do not point at the indigene Mixkoatl," says Captain Tenoch, "we don't know what's considered rude here."

"Well they're pointing at us Captain," says Mixkoatl, "seems only fair we get to point back."  
Behind him Nochtli hears silence, and although he doesn't turn back he can somehow sense that Captain Tenoch is giving Mixkoatl a stern look.

"Do you remember what happened in the archipelago?" asks Captain Tenoch.

All of the men remember because there hasn't been a single day of their voyage that Tenoch hasn't reminded them.

"Yes," reply the men in unison.

"What happened when then the Empire set their eyes on the second island?" asks Captain Tenoch.

The men mutter a response.

"Hmm?" says Captain Tenoch. Then: "Nochtli!"

"Yes sir!" says Nochtli.

The indigene onlookers mutter and point as Captain Tenoch barks out his questions. They've gone from hushed whispers to open speculation so Nochtli has a chance to hear the indigene tongue clearly for the first time: a mash of consonants littered with vowels that rise and fall with an odd tempo, quite unlike the sing-song of Atlajtoli.

"You're still a Green Shoot," says the Captain - he likes to pull rank when making a point about history - "you're from some know-nothing family of bumpkin fisherman on the coast. But I imagine even you can tell me what happened on that fateful day."  
"Sir, a Macuahuitl warrior put up three fingers to an indigene merchant to request three fish to eat," says Nochtli while still at guard, "the indigene took this to mean the macuahuitl was an emissary of one of their deities and declared the Atlacal evil."

"And how long were the indigene able to hold out?" asks Tenoch.

"Nine years, sir," says Nochtli.

"Nine years! And during a Rotted Sun! Tens of thousands fell to the curse before balance could be restored! An event so devastating that even this bumpkin managed to learn about it," says Tenoch, "the indigene are not always receptive to the delegations of the Ivory Mask. So it will be as I said: no pointing. No counting. No hand signs of any kind. We leave that to the Itsmitl. You understand me Mixkoatl?"

"Yes sir," says Mixkoatl.

"You understand me you misshapen mongrels?!" shouts Captain Tenoch.

"Yes sir!" shouts Nochtli in unison with the other macuahuitl.

At this the indigene startle and then, seeing the macuahuitl return to their tents, they coo in curiosity.

While Nochtli doesn't look back - his attention is drawn to one of the indigene smiths, a portly old man with a gray beard that hangs all the way down to his  _stomach_  - from ensuing silence he assumes that the conversation is finished. But one more issue is raised.

"Captain Tenoch, do you think we'll have gifts before the next Rotted Sun?" asks Tizoc.

"We will if you keep to your orders," says Tenoch.

After that the Captain retires to a little corner of their small camp and leaves the men not on guard to discuss amongst themselves. As they finish setting up the men speak in whispers so as to avoid any further lectures from the Captain. Unfortunately Nochtli can't make out what they're saying either. So instead he tries to keep an eye out for the woman with the golden hair that he saw before. Until today he'd never once considered that a person could look like that and now he finds he wants to see her once more, just to be sure he hadn't imagined it.

The crowd of curious onlookers disperses now as people return to their errands or chores. Although Nochtli sees a few other indigene with light hair the woman is gone, lost among the mix.


	9. WITH SOME DIFFICULTY, PROPOSITIONS ARE DISCUSSED AND UMBRAGE IS TAKEN

The foreign delegation is invited to stay and the two ambassadors, or delegates, or Itsmitl, as they call themselves, accept. Yaotzin and Iyali are given one room to share but the two do not appear to care for this arrangement, and Lord Edric is quick to make two rooms available to them. Most of their soldiers make camp within the castle walls after speaking with Yaotzin but a handful are sent back to the dock to relay some message to the ships. The Atlacal soldiers, which they call macuahuitl, take care to avoid speaking or interacting with any of Starfall's fighting men, preferring to speak amongst one another in their curiously musical tongue.

The sun is well below the horizon when Lord Dayne shows the two ambassadors to their rooms. Before the two retire to for the evening Yaotzin presents the young Lord with a gift, offering him the green book that they were using to communicate. Edric accepts it happily, and for the rest of the evening he and Maester Cidrio sit in the Lord's solar skimming the pages and looking through the pictures. Maester Cidrio declares the book a type of picture dictionary, although he's perplexed by the choice of images. They don't seem to be chosen in anything resembling order: half of the pictures are of the sorts of common words anyone would need to survive, and the other half are depictions of plants and animals not known to the Maester, all of them jumbled together.

The next two days, over lengthy meals, the two ambassadors use their green leather book to teach their language to the young Lord Dayne and Maester Cidrio. The Maester struggles to imitate their odd consonants and to remember their flowery vocabulary, but Lord Edric takes to their tongue quickly. The two ambassadors are happy to indulge him, prioritizing his education in their language above discussing their own origin or the make of their ships - this latter being mostly a disappointment to Cidrio. Yaotzin and Iyali end up learning some of the common tongue in return and they inquire about the origin of the name of Castle Starfall. Edric and Maester Cidrio try to relay to them the story of the first Dayne tracking a falling star to the spot where the castle now sits, but Iyali and Yaotzin don't seem to understand. To help drive the point home Edric insists on showing them Dawn, the ancient longsword forged from the same material as the fallen star of the castle's name. As no new Sword of the Morning has been named Dawn sits in it's display room in the treasury, protected by a retinue of armed guards. Although Allyria is stewardess Edric is still the Lord of Starfall apparent, so he is free to enter the treasury and approach the statue of a falling star that serves as Dawn's resting place. Free as well to lift it up and show it to his guests. To handle an heirloom this way gives the little Lord a moment's hesitation, but Yaotzin's and Iyali's eyes go wide as they marvel at its pale milkglass color, and Edric can't help but take pride in his ancestors' weapon.

Lord Edric grants the ambassadors free movement about the castle - and to their soldiers as well. At this all of castle Starfall comes alive with the movements of the soldiers and their curious manners. When not called upon to do so by their own strictures the Atlacal leave aside their cloaks leather-rope-like armor if they feel hot, wearing only their short pants-like loincloths and wooden sandals leaving their tattooed chests are bare for all to see. The styles of their hair and the piercings are of all shapes and sizes, many completely unimagined by the Westerosi: men with hair in a thin line on their head like a horse, men with long hair they gather in a high knot, men who've cropped their hair short into animalistic designs. The Atlacal soldiers too, find their hosts odd: to a man they are all bemused by bushy beards and yellow hair. They are perturbed by the sight of horses and make faces at the dung smell of livestock and the musty smell of humanity mixed all together in one place. They look upon castle Starfall's walls with a craftsman's critical eye, tapping the stone and nodding to themselves, shrugging and conversing with one another. Rumors go around that the foreigners are searching for treasure, or that they are searching for a new home, or that their arrival was prophesied by Ser So-and-So or Maester Somesuch. Others claim that they are emissaries from the Lord of Light or the new gods, or the old gods, or the drowned god, or even that they are godless barbarians from a backwards land. But if they are simple godless barbarians, then from whence their ship? No one can answer that question except for the Atlacal themselves. But they have their own questions: why is it that a small city is walled together with this castle? Doesn't this restrict trade? Messages? Food and water? Is it to protect from the hooved deer-beasts? They do look like they could cause damage if they had a mind to.

Needless to say, neither side can pose their questions to the other.

On the third day of hosting the delegation Ser Brownhill and Maester Cidrio urge the council of House Dayne to greet the Atlacal ambassadors in the lord's solar as an official meeting of sovereigns. Edric and Cidrio claim to know enough of their tongue to carry on a discussion. The news goes over well. Allyria, the council, all the minor nobility, and even the small folk of Starfalltown who have to listen in from outside, are eager to know just what the foreigners intend.

At midday a meeting is convened in the pale stone lord's solar. Lord Dayne is seated on his throne and the three members of his council are seated around him, Allyria to his right and Brownhill and the Maester on his left. The minor nobility crowd onto the observation platform above leaving the solar floor to be crowded by House Dayne's closest bannermen and allies. Everyone wants to know where that ship came from, Allyria thinks to herself. Dornish guards stand at sharp attention to form a barrier between the the nobility and to clear path down the center of the solar on which the foreigners will arrive. All the assembled speak in hushed tones as they watch the entrance to the solar, two great wooden doors carved out of a rich dark wood and engraved with the sword and star that is House Dayne's banner.

The doors open. The speaking ceases. A small contingent of Atlacal warriors enters in two rows of six, silent and stoic, keeping their eyes forward just like their Dornish counterparts. Their strange macana-swords draw wandering eyes: the wooden oars with dragonglass edges are carried closely at the warriors' sides and the maces with obsidian heads are slung over the shoulder. House Dayne's bannermen, all of them eager to see the people known as the Atlacal speak, are gathered nearest to the arriving soldiers, and they press forward to catch glances. Yaotzin and Iyali walk between the two columns of soldiers, wearing their blue cloaks and carrying their green leather book. The pair walk into the clearing before the young Lord Dayne and his council, place their right hands over their hearts, and bow. Lord Dayne nods his head to acknowledge them and the two stand upright.

[[You were right Iyali,]] whispers Yaotzin to Iyali, [[there's no doubting it now. This child is their king.]]

[[A theocracy like Iwaniku,]] whispers Iyali, then, looking at Edric, [[he must be the scion of a holy family.]]

"What are they saying?" asks Allyria of her nephew.

"I'm not sure," says Edric, "they speak so quickly when they speak with one another."

Yaotzin and Iyali, aware they've been overheard, fall silent and wait to be addressed.

[[My friends,]] says Edric with a clumsy accent, [[I want know why you visit.]]

Iyali and Yaotzin look at each other. Iyali nods to Yaotzin and he puts on a serious and official demeanor. He says:

[[We are here as servants of Our Rotted Lord TLON, He of the Ivory Mask, Emperor of the Place of Reeds, First Among the Triple Alliance, and the Servant Destined for Sacrifice.]]

Allyria and Ser Brownhill look from the ambassadors to Edric and Maester Cidrio.

"I can't put together what most of those words mean I'm afraid," says the Maester, "but they say them often when we ask about their reasons for being here. The young Lord Dayne believes it to be the name of their lord."

"Or their king," says Edric, "or something like that. I think all those words are his titles."

[[Our lands are blessed by the Sixth Sun,]] continues Yaotzin, [[and in accordance with the it's needs the Tlon seeks to bring the Sun's gifts to distant lands, so that when the time of ikualotl comes, we may come and ask for the gifts the Sun requires.]]

A silence settles over the lord's solar. The bannermen and the council look to their young Lord, awaiting a response.

[[You give gift,]] says Edric to the Atlacal, [[we give gift?]]  
[[I'm not sure they understand,]] whispers Iyali.

[[We owe it to our hosts to be forthright,]] says Yaotzin, [[and the young king seems to get the idea of what I said. Lord Edric, you understand me, correct?]]

[[I understand,]] says Edric, [[gifts for gifts. Trade.]]

[[Yes Lord Edric,]] says Yaotzin with a smile, [[a trade.]]

[[That isn't quite the whole of it though, is it?]] says Iyali.

The bannermen mutter amongst themselves, anxious to hear something intelligible.

"What are they saying Edric?" asks Allyria.

"Trade," says Edric, "You come to trade?" he asks louder for all to hear.

The question alone seems to ease the frustrated tension in the air.

[[In a way,]] says Iyali, then, haltingly: "we give gifts. In future, you give gifts. But gifts-"

"What gifts do you bring?" asks Allyria.

"Many gift, many gift," Yaotzin assures her.

"Ah- yes, but what gifts is it that you bring?" asks Allyria.

"Teachings," says Iyali, "mahiz, medicines, quetzali."

"Mahiz is a type of food, a vegetable they eat. I've seen pictures of it in their book," says Edric to his court, proud to display his knowledge, then to the Atlacal: [[friends, what is quetzali?]]

[[Feathers plucked from birds of the Jeweled Flock,]] says Yaotzin.

Edric looks confused.

"Pretty feather," says Iyali.

An amused chuckle ripples through crowds on the platform and on the solar floor.

"I don't know what use we would have for feathers," says Ser Brownhill, "besides pillows I suppose."

[[What quetzali do?]] asks Maester Cidrio.

"Pretty," offers Iyali, "quetzali pretty, quetzali rare."

[[Hrmmm...you say teachings?]] asks Maester Cidrio, [[what teach you?]]

[[Anything you'd like,]] says Yaotzin, [[we can teach you the movement of the stars and the knot-language of the Iwaniku, we can teach you how to create milpas and harvest the Three Sisters, we can teach-]]

[[Ship?]] asks Maester Cidrio, [[teach make ship?]]

[[Yes,]] says Yaotzin, [[we can teach you how to build a ship.]]

The Maester smiles a wide smile.

"They say they can teach us how to make a four masted ship," says the Maester. The bannerman chuckle and nod in pleasant surprise. Even Ser Brownhill looks pleased by this fact. He looks to Allyria who examines the two strangers with an arched eyebrow.

"You mentioned medicines," says Allyria to Iyali. To Edric she says: "ask what sort of medicines they bring."

Edric considers this and opens his mouth to speak a few times, but he looks stumped.

"Can you ask if they can cure grayscale or shaking sickness my Lord?" asks Ser Brownhill.

"They have a word for sickness, but...I don't know, they haven't taught us words for different kinds of sickness," says Edric.

"That question also assumes that they have grayscale where they're from," says Maester Cidrio, "the Summer Isles has never had a case of grayscale, for example. This foreign land may not have it either, so it follows that they might not have a word for it."

"Medicines good," says Yaotzin reassuringly, "medicines strong."

The council, a bit surprised that the Atlacal could follow that much of their conversation, smile and nod at their guests.

"And what is it you ask of us?" asks Allyria, "what gifts do you want?"

"You gifts?" asks Yaotzin.

[[What gifts you want?]] asks Edric.

[[The gifts aren't for us. The gifts are for the sun,]] says Iyali, "when ikualotl, we want gifts for sun."

"My little lord," says Allyria to her nephew, "what is ikualotl? I've heard them say it often."

"A special event, maybe a holy day," says Edric.

"Part of their religion is my hypothesis," says Maester Cidrio.

"They have pictures of the sun being eaten by darkness so that it's black, and then the darkness goes away again," says Edric.

"A curiosity to be sure," says Maester Cidrio, "Maesters who've earned a bronze ring would know of such things, I can send a raven to the Citadel to seek their counsel on the matter."

"So they want to peddle their foreign religion then?," asks Ser Brownhill.

"Ikualotl not now," says Iyali, "ikualotl five and ten years future."

[[When ikualotl,]] says Edric, [[we give gifts?]]

"Yes," says Iyali.

[[But what gift? What is gift for sun?]] asks Edric.

"Pretty things," says Iyali, "pretty jewels, art, good food, people."

"A celebration of some sort?" asks Maester Cidrio, thinking out loud.

"A feast?" asks Ser Brownhill with a chuckle, "doesn't sound so bad a trade."

Allyria looks unconvinced. Her consternation stands out all the more as she appears to be the only member of the court still perplexed by this offer. The lesser nobles and the bannermen chatter excitedly among themselves, guessing at what other good tidings these foreigners might bring and mulling over a religion built around - what as it? An dark sun?

"Lord Edric," says Yaotzin, "you take our gifts?"

Allyria looks to Edric. She is glad to see that he doesn't answer right away, that he takes this offer seriously. These are not gifts, this is a sort of agreement, a sort of pact. A seemingly good pact, but one whose details are not all clear, or at least not to her. Allyria wants to counsel patience but she bites her tongue. Perhaps this sort of endeavor is the motivation Edric needs to assume his role as Lord of Starfall. And what harm could it be to take gifts and hold a feast? Feasts have been thrown for much lesser reasons than this. This is not some serious decision, Allyria thinks to herself, this is a foolish little pact with some funny foreigners, just a goodwill act with traders from the Summer Isles or somewhere near abouts.

Lord Edric Dayne looks at his council then out at his court. They wait eagerly for his response.

"Yes. We accept your gifts," says Edric.

The court cheers and claps. Maester Cidrio grins from ear to ear. Ser Brownhill crosses his arms but smiles slyly. Allyria remains stoic, aware of the diplomatic nature of this event. Iyali and Yaotzin smile and bow.

"Shall we have a feast to celebrate my lord?" asks Ser Brownhill

"Feast!" cries out a voice from the court, joined in a moment by others, "Feast! Feast!"

Seeing the crowd begin to chant, Yaotzin motions to one of the Atlacal warriors to come to the center clearing. The warrior does so, bringing with him an obsidian dagger and his macana just as the elation in the room rises to applause.

[[Let us seal our agreement,]] says Yaotzin. In the cacophony of cheering voices, his voice is difficult to hear.

When the Atalcal warrior stands in front of Iyali and Yaotzin and before the council of House Dayne with his weapons however, the court falls silent again.

[[My friends,]] says Edric, [[who is this?]]

"He help make pact," says Iyali.

The court looks on.

[[Are you ready brother?]] Iyali asks of the warrior.

The warrior's stoic expression does not change as he nods. He offers his sheathed dagger to Iyali and his macana to Yaotzin and turns to face the Lord of Starfall. The warrior kneels with both knees on the ground and the scraping of his legs echos through the solar's empty air. People crane their necks out to get a better glimpse of what's going on. What  _is_  going on?, Allyria thinks to herself.

[[Brave warrior, sacred sacrifice, inform Xolotl that your spirit is destined for the place where the sun rises,]] says Iyali.

Iyali unsheathes the dagger and drives it through the kneeling man's back, piercing his heart with a sharp, low, thud. The warrior gasps but doesn't move. Iyali retrieves the dagger and steps away from him. The man bends forward at the waist and lowers his head in a bow at which point Yaotzin slices through his neck with one clean swing of the macana. The warrior's head rolls crookedly away from his body. Blood seeps from the warrior's neck and pools on the cold stone floor.

Iyali and Yaotzin bow.

The silence breaks.


	10. CITLALI AND LOMYS SEEK AUDIENCE WITH THE LORD OF SUNHOUSE

At midday the air is still cool and crisp from the morning. A collection of wispy clouds in the sky veils the sun, and across the green expanse of the Reach the clouds' shadows drift across the landscape.

Lomys looks to Citlali walking alongside him. Her green eyes are focused forward on the path before them. He looks away from her before she has the chance to notice him, to avoid making eye contact. At first he didn't want to take her to Cuy at all- at first he wanted to shout at her, hurt her, see her suffer. The impulse was misplaced, he can see that now. It's not her fault that they were ambushed by bandits, that they killed her friend and his father, it's not her fault that the bandits went to go find his family's farm and - well. But isn't it true that they were going to wait a day or so before heading to town? Isn't it true that Citlali and Acatzin pressed them to head out earlier than planned? Perhaps, if they had waited, the bandits wouldn't have been there. Perhaps the bandits would have chosen another cart of smallfolk to menace. Perhaps his family would still be alive. Perhaps this is all a dream - yes, perhaps Lomys dozed off after a hard day out on the field, and in just a few moments he'll open his eyes and see momma and poppa and Leander and Calissa seated all around the little hearth of their cottage, sopping up last of the meat stew in their bowls with bread, and they'll all laugh at Lomys for being so absent minded as to fall asleep during dinner.

Perhaps. But every passing second he doesn't wake up reminds him of just how fickle the word perhaps can be.

Lord Cuy will know what to do, Lomys thinks to himself. Lords are educated men, wise and knowledgeable on matters of justice. The law has been broken. He will see that it is righted. A Lord's duty is to defend his land and his people, is it not? He is meant to dispense the Father's justice, is he not? Well, perhaps justice to  _his_  people at least. Lomys glances at Citlali again and notices the beginnings of tattoos on her collarbone that disappear under the fabric of her white and blue tunic. He notices the jade stud under her lip, the gold earring on her eyebrow and the gold rings all up and down her ears. She looks like a whore, Lomys thinks to himself, bitter and angry. It'd be a surprise if the highborn don't cast her out of Cuy entirely. Citlali notices him and their eyes meet for a moment before he looks away. A whore, he thinks to himself again, but the word rings hollow. Part of him knows that he's being cruel to her because the world has been cruel to him. But this ire is preferable to the despair his memories of his family bring him. At least this way he feels alive.

It's their second day of travel and they have another before they reach the town. They packed well for the journey: Citlali organized her foreign tools to make the most space in her leather pack, and Lomys took the pack his father would sometimes use, as well as the handful of silver stags he knew his father hid under the floorboards. Travel rations of bread and hard cheese are split between them. Citlali didn't ask any questions of him as to why they're headed to Cuy. Lomys imagines she has her own reasons, the same reasons she had when she first asked to be taken there, although he still doesn't know what those are. He hasn't tried asking her; Citlali doesn't seem to want to speak anymore than necessary. Whereas before she was more than happy to try and teach and speak using her green book, now she doesn't bother to take it out of her bag. If anything needs to be communicated she says his name - her accent morphing Lomys into Lowmees - and points to this or that. Even when they stopped to sleep on the first evening - when Lomys ached to say something about the hole left by his family's death, to speak aloud and let her know of his heart collapsing in on itself, even if she couldn't understand him - Citlali didn't try to speak or listen, she simply laid on her leather bed roll, facing away from him, and went to sleep.

The shadows grow long and then blue as the moon rises into the night sky. The dirt road becomes hard to see in the dark and Lomys waves to Citlali to get her attention then points to the ground to tell her it's time to rest. Citlali doesn't respond; she isn't looking at him. He follows her gaze and in the distance he can see the dim orange torchlights of the Sunhouse and Cuy, the people of the settlement just now lighting the nightly fires. Out in the distance the outlines of the buildings and the castle appear as a dark mound of coal at the edge of a field. Beyond the Sunhouse one can see the moon's reflection broken across the shimmering waves of the Summer Sea. The shadows of the last few ships float toward the city's docks, guided by a modest lighthouse.

"Cuy?" asks Citlali.

"Yes," says Lomys.

Citlali stares out at the city with her face in the rictus of concentration and confusion.

Lomys leaves her to look on by herself. He wades into the black underbrush among the trees and away from the road. A simple clearing for one more night's rest is all he needs. Then he'll have a Lord's judgement, whatever that is.

The two depart early next morning and reach Cuy by midday. A kind merchant gives them a ride for most of the way across the great plains that surround the Sunhouse. The merchants gives the traveling pair a few perplexed looks which make Lomys nervous but that Citlali takes no notice of. Her eyes are gorging themselves on the aesthetics of Cuy: the town, which exists at the center of a massive field adjacent to the rocky coast of the Sunset Sea, rises up from little wooden shacks that serve as trading posts or inns or houses for the smallfolk at it's edge, to two and three story stone buildings that are the homes and workshops of artisans, to the other buildings near the center, taller still, that serve as the homes of the lesser nobility; mothers call their children in for food and merchants hawk their wares and bands of riders and pigs and chickens rove here and there. Citlali stares, mouth agape, at all the commonness of man as if she'd never seen it before. Once they reach Cuy's edge Lomys thanks the merchant for his kindness and bids him farewell, ignoring the man's arched eyebrow and hurrying Citlali along. If he didn't take her by her hand - as he does now with a certain hesitation, noticing it's warmth against his cool flesh - then she wouldn't move from where she's standing. As they press on Citlali's eyes are locked upward, and so Lomys looks up too.

The Sunhouse towers above the rest of Cuy. Tall and solitary it's visible from a great distance but it's only when one is close enough - and when one has to crane one's neck upward to see its top - that the mind can take in its size. Massive banners display the herald of House Cuy - six yellow flowers in two rows of three, against a background of royal blue - prominently on all four sides of the Sunhouse, and Lomys is reminded of their words:  _The Radiant Bloom._ At the top of the tower Lomys and Citlali can see the glass box that is the Lord's Arboretum. Lomys is reminded of the story of Old Oswell Cuy, a scholarly Lords who hated his own father, who traded all the golden dragons of his family for a glass garden instead of a garrison - books instead of brigands - forever dooming his descendents to fall to scrolls instead of swords. When he was little Lomys thought Oswell was stupid for doing so, an opinion shared by every other little boy who liked to play monster and maidens and all the old men who liked to brag about conquests. But as he gets a little older Lomys sometimes wonders about that glass garden. They say the Cuys have exotic flowers and trees from all across the world seeded there, and that even Maesters from the Citadel come to visit and study there from time to time. Lomys would like to see such a thing firsthand. From the ground where he stands all he can see is blurred green streaks of foliage and the blue of the sky behind the glass. He notices Citlali staring at the Arboretum too and wants to tell her of Oswell Cuy but he's not sure how he would start, and he feels suddenly very lonely.

As Lomys and Citlai make their away along other thoughts fill his mind. How does one beseech a Lord? Lord Cuy probably has no time to be speaking to smallfolk. He has a house and lands to protect. But surely a Lord would want to know that there are bandits in his lands wouldn't he? And it goes without saying that a Lord concerned by bandits would be just as concerned by foreign warlocks, or witches, or priestesses proselytizing on his lands, or whatever it is that Citlali is. It's true that the Sunhouse has high walls and a cadre of well trained men at its every entrance to make sure that no one enters, but a scholarly Lord would surely have a hunger for the information Lomys brings. This thought seems meager to Lomys, but as it's the only one sustaining him at the moment, he turns it over and over again in his mind.

At one of the eight gates on the eight sides of the Sunhouse wall Lomys finds two guards in steel armor with streaks of blue and yellow. Each stands at attention at either end of the gate's great wooden door. The guard nearest ot Lomys looks on at the procession of the busy street before him with a bored expression. Lomys puts his hand on Citlali's shoulder and makes a stopping motion with his hand to ask for her to wait behind him. Citlali eyes the guards' armor and then looks at Lomys. She nods but she does so in an empty, naive way. She doesn't understand that guards sometimes deal brusquely with smallfolk.

Lomys steps forward to speak to the guard alone and suddenly aware of his own bumpkinness he stands a little straighter and makes sure to speak his words clearly.

"Seven's blessings," says Lomys.

The guard doesn't notice him approach and jolts a little when addressed.

"Sevens blessings," says the guard, warily.

"I...I would seek audience with Lord Cuy," says Lomys, "bandits roam the countryside near the Sunhouse. They killed my family."

"Hrmmm," says the guard "And who are you?"

At this the guard on the other end of the gate comes over to listen. His armor clinks and clanks together as he stands beside his comrade, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

"I'm Lomys, ser," says Lomys, "son of Cleyton the wheat farmer."

"Ah, I thought I recognized you," says the second guard.

"You know him?" asks the first.

"Yes - you're Layla's boy. Out from some little cottage to the east, right?" asks the second guard of Lomys.

Lomys nods.

The guard says to his compatriot, "His mother is my wife's cousin. Lomys, I'm Caleb, this is Orin."

Orin nods, still unsure.

"I'm sorry to hear about your family Lomys," says Caleb, "my wife will be sad to hear of her cousin's death. They used to play together when they were girls."

Lomys gives a weak smile.

"Who is  _she_?" asks Orin as he points to Citlali, "is she one of the bandits?"

Lomys looks back at Citlali. She knows that she's being talked about and she perks up. Lomys notices now how people passing by in the street give her strange looks, noticing her cloak and tunic, taking note of her brown skin and black tattoos, raising eyebrows at her jade stud and pierced eyebrow. The guards look at her and tilt their heads, then they look at each other, then back at Lomys.

"Ah...no," says Lomys, "she's not a bandit...she is the other reason I wish to have audience with Lord Cuy. She had a travelling companion, a man, they came to my family's farm a week ago, a few days before the bandits showed up. Me and my - er, I mean, my father and I were bringing them here on the road when the bandits ambushed us."  
"Where is she from?" asks Caleb.

"I don't know," says Lomys, "she said they were from somewhere far away, but I'm not sure where. She doesn't speak the common tongue, so it's hard to know what she's saying."

"If she doesn't speak the common tongue how do you know she said she's from far away?" asks Orin.

"She has a book," says Lomys, "she uses it to talk."

The guards look at each other.

Lomys waves Citlali over and makes page flipping motions with his hand. Citlali understands his meaning and retrieves the green leather book from her pack. She opens the book to a page of two people on a journey on one side and them meeting a pair of people with feathers in their hair on the other. Orin crosses his arms as he looks on and Caleb puts his hand to his chin.

"Have you ever seen a book with pictures like that Orin?" asks Caleb.

"Don't spend much time looking at books," says Orin.

"The colors are so bright," says Caleb to himself, "and this is how you talk to her?" This he asks of Lomys.

"I…" begins Lomys. He hesitates to let them think of him as Citlali's interpreter. "Well, yes, but this is how she talks to everyone."

"She's dumb?" asks Caleb.

"What's your name?" Orin asks Citlali.

Citlali looks to Lomys. Lomys points to himself and says his name, then he points to her.

"Citlali," she says to the guards. She points to herself for emphasis.

"That's a strange name," says Caleb.

"Never heard of anyone named Citlali before," says Orin.

Lomys isn't sure how to respond to their incredulity, so he lets the guards mull all of this over in silence.

"She must be Essosi," says Orin with finality.

"I've been to Bravos once" says Caleb, "never seen tattoos like that, even over there."

Citlali flips through the book. She opens to a picture with a person at the center of a circle of people. The other people bow to the person at the center. On the other page is an image of two people shaking hands, with crowds of people on either side. Citlali points to these two pictures then points up at the Sunhouse.

"Tlatoani?" asks Citlali.

The guards look to Lomys, who shrugs.

"I think she wants to speak to Lord Cuy too," says Lomys.

The guards confer privately with one another for what seems like a few minutes. When they're done Orin looks back at Lomys and Citlali, then calls up for the gates to be opened.

"I'll tell the guards inside that you want to see Lord Cuy," says Caleb, "they'll show the way there once you're within the walls."

"Thank you ser," says Lomys, "I'm glad the Lord can see me on such short notice."

"Don't call me ser, I ain't no knight," says Caleb, "And a word to the wise: I imagine his Lordship will want to know about bandits in his lands, but I think he'll be much more interested in your friend Citlali."  
Lomys is startled by this and takes a step closer to Citlali. Without meaning to he finds himself holding her hand again.

"Hah," says Caleb, "that's not what I meant boy. He's already got a Lysene mistress for that."

Citlali is surprised to find his hand in hers at first, but after a moment she looks at Lomys curiously. Lomys lets go and pretends not to notice her noticing.

Orin the gate guardsmen shows Lomys and Citlali into the castle courtyard. The outer area around the wall of the castle is rough ground, marred by the constant footfall of man and horse, but as one moves closer to the Sunhouse at the center the rough ground gives way to flower beds in all kinds of colors and well manicured trees growing up from perfectly circular plots in the cobbled interior - even the air becomes sweeter, perfumed by the blooming aromatics. Highborn people wander here and there dressed in finery, the women preferring dresses in shades of blue and yellow and the men wearing sashes and military attire in same. Although Lomys tries not to eavesdrop he can't help but notice how they speak in serious tones of business and politics with fancy words his ears have never heard before. Near the base of the Sunhouse there are a few buildings that serve as homes or workshops to the skilled craftsmen in the employ of the Cuys, every one of them much finer and grander than any of the buildings outside the castle walls, often consisting of multiple gables and wide, clear, windows. Citlali gawks at all of these things, her eyes wide and prone to darting here and there like a child's. Lomys himself cannot help but do the same. He's never been inside the castle walls before either - never been this close to a castle - and while he's heard stories of the sights to prepare, they are just as dazzling to him as to her.

Orin hands them over to a pair of guards that lead them to the base of the high tower. There, by one of the four great stone stairways on the four sides of the Sunhouse, the guards ask Lomys and Citlali to wait with their things on a stone bench until Lord Cuy can see them. The two gawking guests do as they're told.

As they wait highborn walk by, their conversation slowing as they approach until it comes to a brief pause as they notice the color of Citlali's skin and the jewelry about her face. Citlali notices them and smiles but this causes the onlookers to look away as if they never noticed her, re-engaging in their conversations. This happens again a few times before Citlali stops smiling at onlookers and pretends not to notice that they notice her. Lomys is thankful when she does this, it draws less attention. Any one of these highborn could probably ask a guard to imprison them right then and there, and Lomys doesn't know enough about highborn mannerisms to know what is or isn't bad manners.

After what feels like hours another pair of guards retrieve them and escort them up the stone stairway through the entrance into the great tower. Once inside a labyrinth of lavish hallways draped in expensive rugs and carved motifs of plants of various kinds confuses Lomys' sense of direction. Past a great many torches and banners and pictures and heirlooms, the two guard escorts and the two guests finally reach a great spiral staircase made of stone at what appears to be the tower's center. The way up the stairs is grueling and is made worse by the fact that Lomys and Citlali still have their packs with them. The guards, although they wear chainmail and carry spears with them, seem unfazed by the climb up. At very the top - after a number of breaks for Lomys and Citlali to sit and rest on one of the landings that leads to one of the labyrinthine floors - there is a landing where guards stand dutifully at either side of a gate that leads to another, smaller, spiral staircase made of wrought iron. Lomys and Citlali are urged forward by the armed guards, and so they go up these last stairs and into the Arboretum.

The first thing Lomys notices is the heat: the air is thick and humid and the warmth of it seeps into his being. His clothes feel heavy and his hair wilts and sticks to his skin. Around him the sights of flowers, much more varied and strange and alien than the garden outside, reach up and over him from all sides, growing in plots made to look like wilderness, climbing trees and trellises to form green walls speckled with colorful blooms here and there. On either side of him Lomys can see winding walkways made of marble - he wouldn't know marble if it crushed his skull but that's the word that comes to mind - that are lined with trees of all kinds on either side. Before him is a wide path leading to a throne and a court bounded by thick hedges with leaves in a dozen styles, garnished here and there with the bright yellow flowers of House Cuy's sigil. Lomys, amazed but withered by the heat, looks over to Citlali, who looks bright and amazed beside him.

Ahead of him Lomys can hear an older man speak:

"My lord, the young man that came to our guards," says the voice, aged but booming.

Another voice answers, but too distant for Lomys to make out what it said. As he and Citlali are escorted toward the court, the conversation comes into hearing distance.

"-ways that the men can be used more effectively," says a voice, monotone and somewhat nasally, "so as to avoid these sorts of losses."

"Well said milord," says a different voice, this one a bit hoarse but with a spry energy, "I can write the Citadel. I am sure they have some books on stratagems what will prove useful in the future."

Lomys can see six figures before him. He knows that of all of them Lord Branston Cuy, current heir of Old Lord Oswell's Sunhouse, must be the man sitting at the center, for that is where a Lord always sits. On a wrought iron throne painted a dark blue, his brown hair going grey, years of luxury pounds on his frame, and wearing a gold necklace with sapphire flowers in an inverted homage to his herald, Branston Cuy looks on warily. To Lord Cuy's left he sees the woman who must be Lady Cuy, an older woman but still noticeably younger than the Lord, yellow haired and thin to the point of frailty, seated alongside him with a young woman who must be their daughter. She's about the same age as Lomys, her hair golden with streaks of brown, and from the generousness of her figure Lomys imagines she's inherited something of her father's appetite. Both are dressed like proper ladies, the mother in blue and yellow and the daughter in green and yellow, and they acknowledge the guests with a slight nod. Citlali fixates instantly on the hair of these two women, her eyes darting back and forth in disbelief. She looks to Lomys who only now realizes that these might be some of the only yellow-haired people she's come into close contact with. To Lord Cuy's right Lomys sees a balding Maester dressed in crisp and clean robes, the links in his chain all polished, standing up almost on his tiptoes to catch a better view of their entrance. Alongside him two knights in full plate armor - who Lomys imagines must be cooking alive in this heat - stand perfectly still as if on guard. All of the assembled regard Citlali with intense curiosity, and Lomys not at all.

Lomys bows. Seeing this, Citlali follows suit.

"The captain tells me your family was slain by bandits," says Lord Cuy. His voice carries the slight garble that sometimes accompanies gluttony.

Lomys looks to his right and sees the source of the booming voice that heralded him, a stocky man, older than Lomys but not by too much, with dark cropped hair. Citlali gazes at her reflection in the man's clean steel armor.

"My condolences," continues Lord Cuy, "I've asked Captain Durand to send some outriders to search the countryside and ensure the bandits see the Father's justice."

"Th-thank you Lord Cuy," says Lomys. He gives two quick bows, "thank you. I hope that, that in the spirit of-"

"The captain also made mention of your curious companion," says Lord Cuy.

Lomys look to Citlali.

The Lord addresses Citlali in Valerian, and then in something that Lomys thinks is probably Ibbenese. The Maester also says some things, first in one language and then another, neither of which Lomys recognizes. Citlali blinks, looks at them both and then at Lomys.

"Where did she say she was from?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Ah...from somewhere far away," says Lomys, "I think she - that perhaps, the bandits followed her and her friend to us-"

"Her companion is dead?" asks the Maester.

"Yes, slain by the bandits," says Lomys.

"And his body?" asks the Maester.

"Buried," says Lomys. Unsure about this line of questioning he offers: "out by the road where we were attacked."

The Lord and the Maester nod and place their hands on their chins to think in unison.

Citlali says a few words in her tongue.

"What did she say there?" asks Lord Cuy.

"I think it's a greeting," says Lomys, "that's how she says hello."  
"Sevens blessings," says Lord Cuy and nods his head. The rest of his court follow the lead of their Lord.

"Where does she say she's from?" asks Lord Cuy.

"From the west," says Lomys.

"How do you know that's what she said?" asks the Maester.

"She uses a book to speak," says Lomys. He makes a book opening motion and Citlali nods and reaches for her pack.

The moment she does so the two armored knights place their hands on their swords' hilts and step forward to enter their stances, their armor jostling and clanking as they do so. The Cuys, the guards, the knights, Lomys, Citlali - all become very still.

"What does she have in that pack!?" demands Lord Cuy.

"I...she has, she has her book-" begins Lomys.

"Weapons?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Ah- a dagger- " says Lomys.

Lomys can hear the little clinks of metal gloves tightening their grip.

"To defend ourselves, to defend ourselves milord," says Lomys, "I still have my hatchet in here too milord - forgive me milord we meant no offense-"

"Put both your packs down and step back twenty paces," says Lord Cuy. No irritation or anger in his voice this time, just a firm calm.

Lomys takes off his pack and takes Citlali's pack out of her hands, placing them both together in front of them. Citlali doesn't resist - her eyes are on the steel-plated knights. Placing his forearm on Citlali's collar Lomys gently moves both of them back, making very sure to count each of his steps.

With a nod of the head from Lord Cuy the knights move forward, one of them keeping his gaze on Lomys and Citlali while the other rifles through their things. The knight finds the hatchet and the dagger and kicks the rest out of the way. He kneels before the wrought iron throne and offers Lord Cuy the two weapons he's found. The hatchet he tosses lazily to one side but the dagger he holds gingerly, his eyes gazing deep into the inky blackness of the obsidian. The first knight, hand on his sword, still stands unmoving in front of Lomys.

"Please," says Citlali.

"She can speak?" asks Lady Cuy.

"Please," says Citlali, "no bad, no bad!"

Lomys gives her a look but Citlali ignores him.

"Tlatoani," begins Citlali, "we, we bring gift, I bring gift!"

The court looks to Lomys.

"What is she talking about?" asks Lord Cuy.

"The book," says Lomys, "her book, the one she uses to talk with us. When she and her friend first came to our farm they gave us a book."

"What sort of book is it?" asks Lord Cuy. Then to one of the knights, "Ser Durand, when you found the barbarian ship, did they have books?"

"Yes milord," says the knight standing ready before Lomys and Citlali, "a book with green leather binding and a tough parchment I couldn't recognize."

"Why didn't you mention this before?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Forgive me milord," says Ser Durand, "It slipped my mind. I was  _distracted_  by the slaughter of my battalion at the hands of these  _barbarians_."

"I will not warn you to watch your tongue again Ser Durand," says Lord Cuy with the same calm he told Lomys to take twenty paces back.

"I looked through one of those books milord," says the other knight, still kneeling before his lord as when he offered him the two weapons, "forgive me for not mentioning it earlier milord, there was so much to relay, but I believe that those books might be magic-"

"Magic?" says the Maester with surprise, "milord, the idea that these barbarians could have  _magic_   _spellbooks_ is-"

"Let Ser Orme continue," says Lord Cuy.

"I saw demonic writing milord," begins Ser Orme, "impossible beasts and monstrous plants, and then paintings of a fallen world…"

The Sunhouse is so silent now that the low bustle of the town far below can be heard.

"...fields of food turning to rot, beasts consuming one another, barbarian murderers wandering around, slaughtering the innocent...and a great dark ring in the sky that seemed as if to bleed down from the heavens onto the earth."

"And I was not told of this?!" says Lord Cuy, incredulous and seemingly to everyone, "I can't believe I have to sit here and witness House Cuy fall over itself as it struggles with it's scabbard,  _again._  When I ask my knights for a military report I expect it to contain  _all_  relevant information, do I make myself clear?"  
Ser Orme bends down in a slightly deeper kneel and mutters something while Ser Durand manages a stilted yes milord.

"Now," says Lord Cuy, "you there, farm boy."

"Milord?" says Lomys.

"Do you know this woman to be capable of magic?" asks Lord Cuy.

He's suspected it, certainly. Lomys thinks now to when he first found the book, how the images that Ser Orme described alarmed him. But he'd never seen Citlali or Acatzin do anything that looked like sorcery, not even when they were facing down death by banditry. Citlali's dragonglass dagger is a cruel looking thing, and perhaps  _that_  is magic in itself, but-

"No," says Lomys, "I've not seen her cast spells or incantations or anything like that."

"Has she engaged in any other...abnormal behavior?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Ah, well no, milord," says Lomys.

"And, since in the time she's been in your custody, has she communicated with the rest of her ship?"

Her ship? What ship?

"N-no, milord," says Lomys.

Lord Cuy bids his Maester come closer and the two exchange a few words. During this little discussion the Ser Orme retrieves the green leather book from the Citlali's pack and gingerly hands it to the Lord and Maester. As they flip through the pages both their eyes go wide. At this Citlali looks to Lomys, unsure. Lomys looks Lord Cuy, feeling the same.


	11. FOUR FIGHTERS FLEE CASTLE STARFALL

When the Itsmitl go to negotiate with the bulk of the fighters Nochtli, Mixkoatl, Tizoc, and Dohate, off duty, wander around the outside of the gate of the indigene fortress. Nochtli manages to befriend one of the indigene dogs - a ridiculously wooly thing, dark brown, some stray from near the edges of the settlement - and the four macuahuitl fighters take turns throwing scraps up in the air for it to catch.

"I'll name him xocolate," says Nochtli, "because of the color of his fur."

He tosses a scrap of dried fish up into a tall soft arc which the dog traces with his eyes, snatching the fish out of the air in one clean bite.

"I wouldn't go naming it right away," says Mixkoatl, "it'll probably leave once you stop giving it food."

"Naming something gives it meaning," says Tizoc sagely.

"You think Tenoch is gonna let you keep a dog?" asks Dohate.  
"He'll be outside. It's not like I'll be taking him on to the ship," says Nochtli. He had a dog once as a boy and it's something of a relief to see that even here in this foreign land, dogs still behave like dogs.

"He'll have someone shoot it with a bow just to be rid of the ticks," says Mixkoatl.

"We're going to be here for at least another three months, probably more," begins Nochtli, "Captain Tenoch can't keep us from having dogs for that long. Can he now boy?"

Xocolate wags his tail excitedly. After moment Xocolate stops still and his ears perk up. Sounds of yelling voices cut into the air as a commotion spills from within the castle's walls and into the outer courtyard. Nochtli and the others rush back to the gate to see what the commotion is but Xocolate darts away in the other direction, off into a small wood away from the castle walls.

The fighters come around the gate and witness the unfolding mob. A crowd of men in armor and swords push back out of the great central doorway of the castle, forming a shifting circle around a single man. Nochtli recognizes him, it's Captain Tenoch! The macuahuitl captain bleeds from a slash that's cut through his salt armor and carved out a piece of his chest. Despite the wound Tenoch keeps his shield up and his macana in stance. When one of the indigene gets too close Tenoch bats down their sword - the macana is longer, if incapable of piercing - and whips the obsidian edge through the air. The indigene are quick to fall back out of range since, judging by their bloodied armor, they've learned just how sharp Atlacal obsidian can be.

All the small business of the courtyard comes to a standstill. Realization washes over the artisans and journeymen and they rush out of the way to give the fighting indigene more room, shouting something in their tongue that Nochtli doesn't understand as two other macuahuitl cut their way through the inside of the castle, rushing to the aid of their Captain. Captain Tenoch yells something at the top of his lungs but it's meaning is muffled by all the baying war cries of the indigene fighters. Nochtli breaks into a full sprint and snatches up his macana as he and the others pass by the makeshift camp they made against the castle wall.

The fighting comes to a lull and then to a stand still as Tenoch and the two macuahuitl brandish their macana and maces at the indigene iron-swordsmen, who do the same. All are in stance, all ready to strike, but none is willing to be the one to break the tension and allow for a riposte. Tenoch goes to change his stance but slips and staggers as he tries to correct himself. An indigene steps in to take advantage of the opportunity and lifts his iron greatsword high but Tenoch whips the macana across his neck just before the swing, splattering the black obsidian with red. He shouts his orders again and this time Nochtli and his compatriots hear it clearly:

"TELL THE OTHERS! GO!"

The indigene give a war cry in response and, seeing his death before him, having made clear his order, Tenoch dives into the crowd of indigene iron-swordsmen. Nochtli loses him in the ensuing chaos. One of the macuahuitl jumps to his Captain's aid but the other is penned in by some of the indigene artisans in the courtyard who've taken up arms against the Atlacal.

Still in a full run Nochtli feels a hand grab at his shoulder and force him around, almost tripping him. Nochtli flicks his macana back behind him but it's only Tizoc.

"Nochtli," he says, "you heard the Captain! We have to warn the ship!"

He looks back and sees Mixkoatl and Dohate are hopping up and down and motioning for him to hurry up as Tizoc looks around them to see if any of the indigene have taken notice of them yet. All of the guards have rushed to the castle entrance, leaving the rest of the outer courtyard bare. For now the archers on the walls are fixed on the fighting.

Nochtli switches his momentum and heads back out toward the gate along with the others. This time when they pass by their makeshift camp they snatch whatever packs were left ready and cut to the right to head for the gates. A low wooden rumble creaks into existence as a few indigene work the wooden winch to close the castle gates. From up above Nochtli hears indigene shouting in alarm, pointing to him and the others, so he slings his pack tight and holds his shield at the ready to catch arrows. The two indigene closing the wooden doors must be off duty as their iron armor is only half on, allowing Mixkoatl and Dohate to cut each of them down in a single slash. Screams ensue as the indigene witness their companions separated at the waist. Mixkoatl and Dohate dart past the opening in the gate while Nochtli and Tizoc follow just behind them, hopping over the two corpses.

Once past the gates the four macuahuitl scatter, running in a serpentine pattern to avoid being struck. Nochtli keeps his shield up with his left and uses his right for balance as arrows flit into the earth around him. We just need to make it to the woods, Nochtli thinks in a way that is both clear and panicked, we make it to the woods and they can't shoot us, we can lose them in the trees -

An arrow jerks his right arm forward, piercing his bicep. The sound of it rushing through the air follows after the pain and it takes his eyes a second to put together what the rest of his senses are telling him. The pain stumbles him for his next few steps but it doesn't break his run - there's too much blood pumping too hard for his heart to let him stop now. More arrows fall at his feet behind him and instinctively Nochtli raises his shield up to protect the back of his neck. The forest isn't too far now - up ahead he can see Dohate breaking away from the rest of them, outpacing the arrowfall. Mixkoatl follows behind him and Tizoc behind him, so only Nochtli is aware that he's been struck. Warm blood runs down his arm and is wicked away by the rushing wind so that little red drops splatter against his tawny salt armor.

Another volley of arrows come down, this time sparing Nochtli but catching Mixkoatl. He cries out in pain and tumbles to the ground. Nochtli slides to a stop beside him and holds his shield up to protect them as best as he can.

"Those raggedy half-faced fuckers got me," shouts Mixkoatl, half terrified, half delirious, "I can't believe they got me, I can't believe-"

"Mixkoatl!" shouts Nochtli, "can you get up?!"

By now the others are around them as well, their shields up in a defensive formation. Mixkoatl stumbles to get up on his feet but Nochtli can see the pain flash across his face.

"I can't run," says Mixkoatl, "I can't run!"

"Tizoc, get him up!" barks Nochtli. He stands to better shield them as Tizoc slings Mixkoatl's arm over his shoulder. At a mad hop, Mixkoatl and Tizoc make the last of the distance into the woods and take refuge in the underbrush just behind the first line of trees as Nochtli and Dohate keep their shields up and over them.

Once in cover Tizoc lets Mixkoatl down to the ground.

"We have to keep moving," says Nochtli, "they're going to come out here looking for us-"  
"I can't keep moving," says Mixkoatl, "they got me, they got me, raggedy, half-faced, fuckers-"

"Rip the arrows out and we move," says Nochtli. Now that he has a chance to catch his breath he can feel the column of aching fire that is the arrow lodged in his arm, so painful that he regrets his words.  _Rip it out?_  But it's too late to take the words back now.

"That won't help," says Tizoc, "the damage has already been done."

"Maybe not," says Dohate, "but there's no sense in letting it stick out to be caught on a passing branch."  
Nochtli offers his arm to Tizoc who, mercifully, breaks the arrow's tail off and rips out the head in one quick motion. Nochtli gasps in pain and presses his good hand to the wound to staunch the bleeding. His blood seeps up from in between his fingers.

"The arrow will have to come out before the Bloodmenders can do anything anyway," says Nochtli, more to himself than to Mixkoatl, but there's no need for anyone else to know it.

Mixkoatl grunts.

"Ok," he says, "do it, go. Do it and let's go!"

Tizoc executes the same procedure on Mixkoatl to extract the arrow from his calf and Mixkoatl clenches his teeth to stifle a whimper.

"Alright, good," says Nochtli, dazed from the pain wracking his arm, "good. We can make it back to the ship. But we need to go  _now_."

From the castle the four macuahuitl fighters hear the sound of thunder as if from a great distance - shaking through the ground instead of crashing through the air. Nochtli looks out toward the sound and spilling into the open field from the gates he sees the indigene deer-beasts, each carrying a single rider, and for the first time the Atlacal witness them at full gallop , eight of them, moving across the ground with a disgusting speed, their hooves slamming into the earth. For a stunned moment it's all Nochtli can do to watch the spectacle of it, to see these men move with their beasts as one, four legs trampling forward as two arms hold a loft a heavy iron sword.

"Get me up," says Mixkoatl, "let's go let's go LET'S GO."

Someone grabs Nochtli by the arm and yanks him back to his senses.

The underbrush is rough and the light comes in mottled through the tree canopy, so that in in his hurried rush Nochtli has to guess at the footing on the forest floor. Mixkoatl keeps up at his side - each step clearly hurting him but his spirit too hungry for life to stop. Tizoc and Dohate crash through the ahead of them and swivel their heads as they look for somewhere to hide. Behind them the thundering gallop of the deer-beasts gets closer and closer then becomes muffled by the forest.

The four macuahuitl fighters run until their lungs are on fire and then some so that they have to stop when Tizoc falls to the ground.

"Tizoc," says Dohate, "Tizoc! Are you alright?"  
Tizoc staggers to his feet breathing hard all the way through it.

"I'm fine- I'm - I just need to rest,"says Tizoc through labored breaths, "just need to rest.'  
"I don't hear the- the deer," says Mixkoatl, "they got close but, then..."  
"I don't hear them either," says Nochtli. Then, in a whisper, "maybe they're already in here."

All turn up at the forest that envelopes them. Everything in this place is so alien - the not-quite-ferns that grow from the ground, the oddly shaped flowers underfoot, the way the leaves of the trees fan out - yet all the rhythms feel somehow the same. There are birds crying far in the distance, the dead foliage still gathers underfoot, and all around is the sense that little creatures watch them from their hovels.

In the distance the galloping of deer-beasts spreads out around them but does not sound as if it approaches.

"They're going to surround us," whispers Nochtli.

Mixkoatl lets himself down to the floor, careful to keep his punctured calf untouched.

"What do we do now?" says Mixkoatl, "I- I- don't know if I can keep up-"

"We just make it to the Loatilistli then we're golden," says Nochtli, "I remember seeing this forest on the way in, we can stay inside it almost all the way back to the docks."

"They're probably on their way their now to cut us off," says Dohate.  
"Well we don't have any other choice," says Nochtli. Suddenly aware of the volume of his voice he whispers: "there is no other way. We make it to the dock and alert the ship. We can't stay here, look around you - this is their regular hunting grounds! We need to get through this place."

The four Atlacal fighters look at each other, weighing this.

"Their deer-beasts are unarmored," notes Tizoc, "how tough could they be? Obsidian works fine for butchering bison as well as ordinary deer, why couldn't it cut through these deer-beasts just as easily?"  
"You saw what I saw," says Dohate, "they move just as fast as bison but with a pair of arms swinging a sword as well! And besides, when was the last time you saw a man face down a charging bison and win?"

"When the seventeenth Tlon went north to conquer-" begins Tizoc.

"Don't give me fairy tales!" interrupts Dohate, "I mean with your own eyes. A full grown bison charging at an open gallop against a man with just a macana-"  
"This world is made of illusions-" begnis Tizoc.

"And even if it was possible! Who knows what these deer-lords can make their beasts do!" says Dohate.

"Quiet!" hisses Mixkoatl.

Silence falls between the four. When nothing comes out of the brush to kill them, the silence is broken by the impossible cry of some exotic bird. In the distance the thundering deer-beasts continue their sweep around the wood.

Nochtli points himself toward the town and docks at the far end of the wood and motions for the others to follow.

After a few hours the four macuahtuil come upon the edge of the wood, where the forest gives way to a rocky shore. Out on the water Nochtli sees the Loatilistli, already set sail, with two indigene ships giving chase. From this distance he can see that one of the galleys is damaged, it's aft dipping into the other, while the second appears to be slowing down and letting the Loatilistli break away. It's still farther up bay, to their right. It might pass near enough that it sees them, but it might not.

Relieved to see that at least ship hasn't been taken Nochtli lets himself down to the ground to rest. His head is swimming and his vision is blurred. Too much blood lost, he thinks to himself. With his good arm he drinks from his canteen but the water does little to help him. He tries not to look at his bad arm. To his right he sees Mixkoatl limping along, only just now catching up to the rest of them. At first he was careful to try and keep his footsteps light and spare himself some pain but now he drags his mangled leg behind him, uncaring. Blood drips from the open wound, spilling on the green leaves and disappearing into the dark earth and he allows himself to collapse onto the ground.

"We're here," says Mixkoatl in a daze.  
Tizoc and Dohate, uninjured, stay on their feet and peer out to where the Loatilistli sails.

"Dohate and I can swim out to the ship," says Tizoc, "and come back with help."

"Will the ship be able to  _send_  help?" asks Nochtli.

"Well, it's not as if either you will make the swim over," says Dohate, "not like this."

Nochtli and Mixkoatl look at each other. There's no sense in denying the truth.

"Go," says Nochtli.  _Go?_ But just like with the arrows before, it's too late now. The word has been spoken.

Mixkoatl sighs.

"I'm not even a good swimmer anyway," says Mixkoatl, "I would have had trouble even if I wasn't dying."

"You're not dying," says Dohate.

" _Go,"_  repeats Nochtli.

Tizoc and Dohate leave behind their macana and their salt armor and dive the ten feet into the sea below. Since they'll be visible once they swim out to the ship Nochtli and Mixkoatl gather their things and hide themselves in a concavity created by earth and roots. This way, if any of the indigene come looking, they'd have to walk all the way out to the cliff here and then turn back to spot them. More than enough time to cut them down. And if they come with friends?, Nochtli asks himself.

"Do you think they're going to make it?" asks Mixkoatl.

Nochtli listens to the waves crash against the shore. In the distance the Loatilistli leaves the wreckage of it's pursuers for the sharks who, like him, can now smell the iron smell of blood. He finds himself suddenly thinking about his little coastal village along the gulf, his family's little garden of tomatoes and marjoram and peppers, the mouth watering scent of grilled fish. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, it's almost as if he's there right now. The waves sound the same here as they did there. He imagines himself now seated against the criss-crossed bark of the Old Man of the Forest, waiting for his mother to call him in for dinner.


	12. ALLYRIA MUST TREAT WITH A SNAKE

In the evening, after the foreign delegation murdered one of their own for their pagan ritual, Allyria presides over the burial of sixty one men. The Silent Sisters clean the red off of the bodies while the local smallfolk, contracted into service, dig the graves. It's not often that men die putting themselves directly between their liege lords and their enemies and so Allyria has allowed that these guardsmen be buried in the graveyard that surround the Starfall's Sepulcher, crypt of the Daynes. Dressed in black Allyria stands alongside Edric and a small entourage on a low rocky hill as the Silent Sisters and smallfolk prepare the dead, her inclined downward in reverence as the Septim gives his eulogy.

. On the outside of the caste walls, the graveyard is on a plateau on the northern end of the island the castle sits on. Here the mists seem to gather, so that in the twilight of dusk the Sepulcher at the center seems to rise up from smoke, surrounded by an army of markers in the shape of seven pointed stars. Allyria reflects on the times when she would wander through this graveyard with her sister Ashara, when they would try to prove their bravery to one another by wandering deeper and deeper into the graveyard at sunset. Sometimes Arthur would come to play with them, but usually he was practicing with Adon and Gerold. Darrion Brownstone would play with them sometimes as well, although he was never the best playmate. Darrion was always afraid of breaking the rules, even if Ashara and Allyria assured him they would speak to their father if they were caught out. He never want past the great stone Sepulcher for fear of upsetting the spirits residing there.

I hope Ser Brownstone is getting more done than this, Allyria thinks to herself as she stands dutifully. The dead deserve their rites, of course, but Allyria hates being at a lack of information, especially given that bloody display of blasphemy and violence. But it's the wise thing to do, she thinks to herself. Allyria's served well watching the coin and managing the squabbling of the lesser lords, but when it comes to war, since the Sword of the Morning is dead, it's Ser Brownstone that has the expertise.

Tomorrow morning the small council will convene and he'll give his report. Then she'll weigh the options and see what needs to be done about a rogue swan ship loose in the bay. And if Edric wants to play Lordling?, Allyria asks herself. Well he's not Lord just yet. Her little Edric will understand. She doesn't know how he'll react to her overstepping him, but he'll understand. She looks over to him now, standing next to her, listening attentively to the Septim's words, his eyes understanding of the tragedy before them. He was a squire and it's hardened him, he will be a good lord, just not quite yet.

The next day Allyria is up and walking through the castle halls just as the sun crests over the horizon. As she hurries past the windows she spots the long shadows of stones and hills out on the landscape. Voices echo throughout the halls as she nears the small council meeting.

Tall ceilings provide for ample walls where maps and diagrams are hung, depicting the various well-tread strategies of House Dayne. A wide window looks east across the water to the dry, rust-colored Dornish landscape, under which there is the long pale-wood table that hosts converation. Ser Brownstone, Maester Cidrio, and Edric are already seated at the table. Joining them are two of House Dayne's most loyal bannermen - the lanky Stony Ser Ferdand and the squat Salty Ser Rorrigo. Although Allyria isn't late, she finds the council already embroiled in conversation.

"We can just tell her later-," says Ser Rorrigo.

"Tell me what?" asks Allyria.

The bannermen cease their talking and bow their heads, as do Ser Brownstone and the Maester. Edric smiles to see his aunt.

"A Sarella Sand arrived earlier this morning in the twilight," says Ser Brownstone.

"Oberyn's daughter?" asks Allyria.

"The very same," says Ser Brownstone. Although he plays the stoic warrior when Allyria looks in his dark brown eyes she sees concern.

"She wishes to address the small council," says Ser Ferdand.

"She speaks for House Martell," says Ser Rorrigo.

The Darkstar?, Allyria thinks to herself

"Y-yes," says Allyria, "forgive me my lords, I'd expected to discuss the foreign ship-"

"We've already discussed that," says Edric cheerfully.

Allyria tilts her head at hearing his voice.

"Yes," says Maester Cidrio, amused, "the young Lord Dayne was the first of us here, he and Ser Brownstone and I discussed the search effort down the bay-"  
"We were waiting for you before beginning the interrogation summaries of course my Lady," says Ser Brownstone with a bow of his head, "but then your bannermen brought word of Sarella's arrival."

Ferdand and Rorrigo look at her now, bowing their heads once more.

"We'll hear her speak," says Allyria, "Oberyn's daughters don't leave the Sunspear without good reason."

The guards are sent and the guards return, this time with the Sand Snake in tow.

Allyria's never seen Sarella Sand before, although she'd heard that she was born of a trader from the Summer Isles that Oberyn managed to find himself in bed with. He managed to find himself in those sorts of places a lot. That Sarella Sand has skin the color of teak is not surprising, nor is her short kinked black hair, nor her onyx like eyes. What is surprising is how Oberyn appears in her face, like a shade. Allyria remembers his sharp nose and his viper's eyes and the two are almost perfectly recreated within the dark frame of this bastard Islander girl. She wears a green dress in the classic Dornish style - flowing cloth and exposed shoulders - and only a few modest gold rings as jewelry. Her poise is confident and knowing and her eyes smile much too much.

Ser Brownstone rises to introduce her.

"Lady Sarella Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell," says Ser Brownstone.

Sarella offers a perfunctory curtsy.

"I hope the Seven find you well," says Sarella, "I bring news for the Lord of Starfall."

"I am-" begins Edric.

"The Lord of Starfall is not of age yet" says Allyria, "I am still stewardess of Starfall, at least until the coming year."

Edric doesn't like this but he hides it well. If she didn't know him better, she'd hardly notice the way he doesn't look at her.

"What news do you bring Sarella Sand?" asks Edric. He sits straight up in his chair.

"My uncle, Prince Dorian, bid me to return to the Sunspear. As Castle Starfall was on my way back, he thought it would be highly improper if I did not stop by and pay respects to House Dayne."  
"House Dayne is honored to receive the esteem of House Martell," says Edric.

"Of course," says Allyria. She smiles and nods, prompting the rest of the council to do the same.

"He also wants to know what you intend to do about your cousin Gerold Dayne," says Sarella.

"Gerold Dayne?" asks Edric.

"The Darkstar," whispers Allyria to herself.

"Oh, yes," says Edric, overhearing, "what about him?"

Sarella gives him a curious look.

"My lord," says Sarella, "the Darkstar is guilty of the murder of Ser Arys Oakheart, knight of the Kingsguard, as well as being guilty of an attempt on the life of the princess Myrcella Baratheon. Has this news not reached you?"

Maester Cidrio busies himself with his chain. Ser Brownstone looks to Allyria, but Allyria pretends not to notice him.

"No," says Edric, "I was away serving as a squire to Lord Beric Dondarrion."

Sarella's curious gaze turns to Allyria now.

"An attempt on the life of a princess is a serious charge," says Sarella, "and my uncle Prince Doran aims to see that justice is done. As the Darkstar is of House Dayne's cadet branch, my Prince thought it best if House Dayne would aid in finding him. If only to avoid the appearance of conspiracy."

Allyria gives an anxious smile.

"Were you aware the Darkstar made an attempt on the princess's life?" asks Sarella.

Although the question comes from the mouth of some bastard girl, Allyria knows that the question was born on the lips of Prince Doran - and Prince Doran doesn't ask questions he doesn't know the answers to.

"We'd heard rumors," says Allyria, "but we didn't think them true. This is why we didn't trouble you with them, my little lord. Gerold can be...abrasive, and people start rumors to try and hurt him. We sent a raven to High Hermitage asking for an explanation given the seriousness of the charges, but we received no word."

Sarella's gaze wanders to the Maester, then to the three Sers.

"Rest assured that the Daynes of Castle Starfall knew nothing of the Darkstar's actions," says Allyria.

Sarella Sand smiles a secretive smile.

"Do not be alarmed my lady," says Sarella, "my uncle the Prince doesn't think you guilty. That's why he knows he can count on you to lend your bannermen to help wrest High Hermitage from the rogue Dayne."  
"Of course," says Edric emphatically, "the Lord of House Dayne is responsible for his cadet branch, and he will see that these wrongs are righted."

Ser Brownstone leans back in surprise.

"My lord," he begins, "I- we haven't yet named a new Sword of the Morning, not to mention that our garrison is still in disarray-"  
"You are truly a good and just Lord, Edric Dayne of Castle Starfall," interrupts Sarella, "the Prince of Dorne will be pleased to know House Dayne remains loyal in these trying times."

The Prince of Dorne won't have us replaced, Allyria thinks to herself, is what she means.

"House Dayne will always remain loyal to the Sunspear," says Allyria, "and our Lord is indeed a good Lord. But we have problems of our own - raiders besiege our coasts and terrorize our lands."

"I'm sure that your fighting men are more than able to handle a few bandits," says Sarella Sand.

"They are more than bandits," says Allyria, "and we can't say how dangerous they are yet. Lending our troops now may result in the sacking of Castle Starfall - and would deprive the Sunspear of an able ally."

Sarella smiles.

"Is this true, Lord Dayne?" asks Sarella.

"It is," says Edric, "these raiders are different. Yes, we will need to keep some of our men near for protection, of course." He gives a quick nod of agreement, "A good lord must also defend his lands."

"Of course, of course," says Sarella. Her eyes focus on the little lord. Allyria imagines the forked tongue of a snake tasting the air.

"However, if I were to return to my uncle with news that House Dayne has elected not to offer it's full aid he may become suspicious. He may believe, as some of the more skeptical members of his court do, that the Darkstar acts on word from Castle Starfall," says Sarella, "We know that's not true of course."

"Of course," says Edric, nodding to himself.

"Would your Lordship help me understand the nature of the threat then?" she asks, "Perhaps the Sunspear can offer aid once the Darkstar is dealt with, to help you with these more-than-bandits."

"Certainly," says Edric, "we were about to go over the summaries of the interrogations."

Edric offers a seat with an open hand and just like that Sarella sits on the small council.

"Let's hear it then Ser Brownstone," says Edric in the most lordly voice he can muster.

Ser Brownstone's eyebrows crease as he gazes upon this new addition and he looks to Allyria. It's still another eight months until Edric is three and ten, Allyra thinks to herself. Stewardship has not been formally renounced.

"These are highly sensitive matters my lord," says Allyria before Ser Brownstone can begin, "while we wish to hold no secrets from House Martell, House Dayne should be able to conduct its own affairs in private-"

"I imagine we will be sharing logistics once we combine our forces to rid Dorne of your marauding bandits," says Sarella, "might as well hear it earlier. The better to plan for."

"That makes sense, doesn't it Maester?" asks Edric.

"Ah," says Maester Cidrio. He looks from Allyria to Edric then back again. "Well, I suppose that-"

"Of course it does!" interjects Ser Ferdand.

"Everything of ours is near the coast," says Ser Rorrigo, "we'll need all the help we can get if that four-masted ship of theirs is as tough as Ser Brownstone has claimed."

"Four-masted ship?" asks Sarella.

Outnumbered, Allyria relents. She nods to Ser Brownstone, who begins.

Of the three Atlacal who were taken alive only one managed to survive his wounds. Yolotl, one of the foreign warriors, cut down five guards, had his leg broken, and had a spear run through his chest before he was detained. Although initially recalcitrant, he broke his silence late in the night, delirious from lack of blood and sleep. In this state Yolotl often repeated that he is a warrior, like them, and that he simply does as he's commanded. And so, down in one of the dark mildewy cells underneath Castle Starfall, he answered everything they asked.

Like the others he claims to be from a land on the other side of the Sunset Sea, which he calls Ayamictlan. He is pledged to an emperor named Tlon, and he says that his duty is to safeguard the ambassadors while they explore eastward, searching for foreign lands with their small fleet of three ships. The reasons for this exploration appear rooted in their foreign religion - Maester Cidrio takes over giving the summation here - Yolotl claims that his emperor searches for foreign riches in order to appease a sun god that makes demands of jewels and blood. The strangest thing though, Maester Cidrio notes, is how straightforward the captive was about this. Yolotl explained how people have their hearts ripped out and their heads sliced off with the same straightforward tone of voice that someone might use to explain why a sept must have seven walls. That people died did not seem to bother Yolotl in the slightest. It was only after Yolotl witnessed the reaction that Ser Brownstone and Maester Cidrio had to this knowledge that he became worried. He pleaded and panicked and pointed to the ambassadors green book, struggling to explain the reason for the killings. The foreigners, these Atlacal, believe that without sacrifices the sun will die and the world will fall into darkness and chaos. That's why their ship, the Loatilistli, came to treat with them, and also why it's such a daunting vessel. Tribute must come from far and wide if the sun god is to be satisfied.

"Yolotl made it clear that kingdoms receive the favor of the emperor Tlon if they supply sacrifices," says Ser Brownstone, "and that if we simply give them what they want, they'll leave."

"Unthinkable," says Ser Ferdand.

"Nightmarish," says Ser Rorrigo.

"Do...do you find this captive believable, Ser Brownstone?" asks Sarella. Little waves of skepticism and confusion move across her face as she tries to read the mood of the small council around her, trying to suss out if this is a ruse. Allyria isn't surprised. She wouldn't believe it herself if she hadn't seen that same disregard for life from the two ambassadors.

"Yes," says Ser Brownstone, "it's in line with what we learned from the ambassadors. In it's own gruesome way it also explains their behavior, as well as the pictures in their book."

"Did the prisoner say where the other ships went?" asks Allyria.

"One departed to a farther shore they sighted days ago," says Ser Brownstone, "although what shores they could have seen isn't clear. By what the captive described it must be somewhere along the Reach's eastern coast."

"And the third ship?" asks Edric.

"Sailed back to give a report," says Ser Brownstone, "to inform their emperor about their discovery, perhaps to come back with aid."

The small council falls silent.

"What happened to the ship here, the- what did they call it?" asks Sarella.

"The Loatilistli," says Maester Cidrio, doing his best to replicate the correct accent.

"Yes, where did that one go?"  
"It sank four of our galleys before it slipped away on a favorable wind," says Edric, "the rest of our galleys are heading out to sea to try and find it."

"The foreign ship had two ballistae on either side of it, and they shoot true," says Ser Brownstone. Then, at seeing Sarella's incredulous look, he adds: "I saw them myself."

"Forgive my skepticism," says Sarella Sand, "I meant no offense, only to see my duty through."

"No offense is taken," says Edric.

"I believe I speak for House Martell when I offer condolences for the men who died fighting," says Sarella Sand, "I am sure Prince Doran will offer aid to our close allies, charged here with defending Dorne's western flank. As for the Darkstar-"

"I will send another raven to High Hermitage," says Allyria, "to allow the Darkstar a chance to explain himself. As his family we owe him at least that much. But-" this she says in response to Sarella raising her finger, "but we will pledge infantrymen to assist in the Darkstar's capture, should he give battle."

"Mounted riders would be quicker," says Sarella.

"They would," says Allyria, "but mounted riders are best kept near at hand, to respond to any further appearances of the foreign barbarians. Isn't that right Ser Brownstone?"

"I-Yes, yes of course my lady," says Ser Brownstone, "once the barbarians are dealt with, the mounted riders can head north to offer aid, if they should still be needed."

"Then can House Martell rely on a fair number of infantrymen? The Darkstar doesn't seem the negotiating kind. And if the rumors that Ser Barristan Selmy is in Essos are true, he may well be the most skilled fighter in Westeros now living. Speaking for myself, I am surprised, although thankful, that Gerold Dayne is not the Sword of the Morning."

"I hope that decision reflects well on House Dayne," says Allyria, "in the eyes of Prince Doran."

"I'm sure it will my lady," says Sarella.

Sarella looks up into the air, thinking.

"Lord Dayne," says Sarella, "may I borrow a raven? My uncle will want to know of this development. If it would help bring the Darkstar to justice, he may have ships that can be made available to search the seas south of Dorne."

"Of course," says Edric.

"And if I may, I'd like to ask if I can stay here at Castle Starfall to assist you my lord," says Sarella to Edric, "as an intermediary, your direct line to the Sunspear."

"Didn't the Prince of Dorne bid you return to the Sunspear?" asks Allyria.

Sarella smiles.

"He bid me stay here a few weeks," Sarella reminds her, "and I do as my Prince tells me."

The precise number of pledged men is haggled over for the rest of the meeting as the Sers hash out the hypotheticals of a battle at High Hermitage and a naval battle with a rogue ship. Afterwards Maester Cidrio and Edric rise to go and continue the interrogation of the prisoner. Allyria allows for Edric to see the prisoner on the condition that there are four guards accompanying him and only if Maester Cidrio keeps the conversation away from their savage religion. Sarella Sand, with surprising boldness and Edric's acquiescence, accompanies them to see this barbarian warrior for herself. As she watches them leave Allyria can see Sarella's onyx eyes alternating between a wide eyed curiosity and a doubting pensiveness.

When there is no one else left in the room, Ser Brownstone speaks.

"My lady, shall I compose a message to send to High Hermitage?"

"No," says Allyria, "I'll write it."

Ser Brownstone nods dutifully.

"My lady, if I may, what will you write him?" he asks, "if Gerold speaks to Prince Doran-"

"The Darkstar won't surrender anything of us," says Allyria.

"How can you be so sure my lady?" says Ser Brownstone, "you remember what he said, the way he thought he could just demand your hand once word of Beric-"

"The Darkstar won't surrender anything of us because the Darkstar doesn't surrender anything, ever," says Allyria, "the bastard girl is right. Gerold isn't the negotiating kind."

She looks to Ser Brownstone. Like Sarella he also has onyx eyes, but while hers are inset in a viper's glare Ser Brownstones are gentle, like those of some of kindly hunter, happy for the challenge but saddened by the blood.

"If Gerold is slain we deny ever speaking with him," says Allyria, "like we said before. If he defeats his accusers then we see what the Sunspear does next."

"Our infantrymen will die in either case," says Ser Brownstone. There is no reproach in his voice - only disappointment.

"Edric was right," says Allyria, "the Darkstar is our responsibility, and we should have controlled him better."

I should have controlled him better, thinks Allyria to herself.

"And if he's taken alive?" asks Ser Brownstone, "the Martells have ways."

"The Darkstar surrenders nothing," repeats Allyria, "it'd be better if he did."


	13. CITLALI ACCUSTOMS HERSELF TO THE REACH

[[Why name?]] asks Lomys in his tone-deaf Atlajtoli, [[why Book of Talking Leaves?]]

This curiosity of his is new. His clumsy way of trying to make amends.

Citlali indulges him.

[[We didn't name it,]] she says, [[in the tenth b'akt'un, when the Tlon of the Seventh Year of the Knife marched north to Hinojovo he came upon tribes of people living in the desert who never learned to write things down. The Tlon asked his Itsmitl to create a book to help his warriors and explorers speak with those people, and so they did. The book amazed the desert tribes - they believed the Atlacal had learned how to make leaves talk.]]

Lomys looks at her, trying and failing to fully comprehend. So Citlali takes the book from the nearby table and holds a single page up, and says his in his common tongue: "Leaves talk."

"Ah!," he says, "sorry, I'm not that quick with it yet."

He feels bad for what they did to me, Citlali thinks to herself. He should. He brought her straight to the maw of a jaguar. It's because of him that Citlali was bound by the crude chains of indigene iron in a dark windowless room. It's because of him that indigene men in iron suits held daggers to her neck and interrogated her - barking in their guttural tongue for hours. She pleaded with them - tried to explain to them the danger of the coming ikualotl and what could still be done - but there was no way they could understand her back then, assuming they had any mercy in them. Unsatisfied they left her there to wallow in the totality of her filth for days afterward. He should feel bad. He should feel terrible. And she should be able to watch him feel it.

And he put himself between me and the guards, she thinks to herself. But this one act is not enough to absolve him. And that was months ago now, besides.

Citlali fastens the green feathers to the elbows of her sleeves, using a tall and crudely rectangular mirror to make sure they're fastened tight. This cheap little guest's room is better than the cell, but it's still a cell all the same. Some simple wooden furniture in a stone room to keep a foreign 'princess.' This fern colored dress they make her wear isn't anything like how they dress back in Atlacal. It's long and flowy in a stylized way, something like the clothes of the women from up north in Hinojovo now that she thinks about it. The patterns of the dress are abstract, geodesic - not unlike the style of Holy Iwaniku. Parts of the fabric around her arms and neck are so sheer she can see through them, yet they hold together. There's nothing like this back home. It makes for a beautiful set of manacles.

As she smoothes her dress Citlali sees Lomys pouring over the Book of Leaves through the mirror. In a few moments he's going to try starting another conversation in Ahua, she can see him gathering up the words for it in his head right now.

Citlali takes another look at herself in the mirror, sees this foreign dress above her Atlacal sandals and the absurdly placed green feathers. In the background only the rough stone hewn room that serves as her cell.

And yet I'm making history, she thinks to herself. No Atlacal woman - no woman from anywhere in Ayamictlan - has been so far eastward as she is now. Today I'll be speaking to a foreign queen, Citlali thinks as she tries to cheer herself, and I'll be the first Atacal to ever do so, the first one to ever speak to - what did they call her? The Queen of Thorns? Yes. They might write books about this day. The first meeting of east and west. She smiles, sees her smile in the mirror, and realizes how absurd she looks.

Illusions, Citlali chastises herself. The lofty dreams of a caged bird.

[[Citlali,]] says Lomys, [[you miss you home?]]

She glances at him using the mirror.

[[I do,]] says Citlali plainly.

[[Hrmm,]] says Lomys.

A knock at the door. Lomys shuts the book and unruffles his clothes. A dark leather tunic with forest green cloth wraps him up so that he sweats whenever they're summoned. All of this is strange for him too. Lowly Lomys, uncomfortable in his nobleman's clothes and meek under the eyes of his betters.

Normally they're summoned to the glass walled garden at the top of the Sunhouse - the tlatoani here, the man they call Lord Cuy, likes to play up Citlali's foreign origins with a jungle-like setting - but today they're pulled from their cloistered room to head downstairs to the courtyard at the tower's base. This Queen of Thorns is a busy woman who has neither the time nor the desire to climb up flights of stairs to be entertained. As two guards escort Lomys and Citlali through the stonework maze of the tower's interior Citlali imagines what she might look like: a fearsome woman with skin like mahogany and hair like night, wearing a crown of long thorns and covered in jade and obsidian jewelry. Somewhere, Citlali imagines, this figure must exist, this land must have some ruler all the indigene bow to. So far the sight seers come to gawk at her have all been other local tlatoani, all of them either equals to Lord Cuy or his underlings - the lesser rich and far flung nobles. Lomys told Citlali that Lord Cuy charges them for the privilege of visiting her, intending for this to flatter her, but being a brilliant bird makes no difference if you're trapped in a cage.

When they make it to the ground floor Lord Cuy's entourage is there to introduce their curiosity. A grand trellis creates an arc of green that opens to the lower courtyard that serves as the Cuys' second botanical garden. There are a number of different plant species cared for here and the leaves and flowers seem to change every few feet, but the variety is paltry compared to the glass Sunhouse up above. At the courtyard's center a fountain - shaded by a circular wooden pavilion that leaves the bubbling water at center in the light of the day - Citlali sees Lord Cuy along with his wife and daughter seated at a lavish table, their servants buzzing around them and their knights at an arms distance away, unhelmed and looking stoic.

At the same table Citlali sees the woman that must be the Queen of Thorns. She wears no crown but her noble poise is unmistakable. The woman is old and wrinkled - her face has the laugh lines of a life spent well lived - but her eyes have a certain unshaking stillness that suggest deep foundations. This Queen of Thorns wears a hat, or a headwrap, Citlali can't quite tell what it is, and she dresses in the style of the other indigene women with cloth layered over and over to create patterns and symmetry in pale green and gold. Although for an older woman perhaps the extra layers aren't so bad, Citlali thinks to herself, they'd keep her warm instead of suffocating her.

Lord Cuy leans over his end of the table out toward the Queen, listing off facts from the top of his head in an effort to impress her. The Queen and her entourage - a few younger indigene that Citlali imagines must be her of her tribe or family - busy themselves with pretending politely to listen, their eyes darting over to Citlali and Lomys as they enter into the court garden.

"Ah they're here!" says Lord Cuy, "Lady Olenna Tyrell, may I present to you our little exhibit! Citlali, the barbarian princess from across the Sunset Sea, and her translator, Lomys."

With a sweep of his arm he motions to Citlali and Lomys. Citlali gives the bow indigene women give - they call it a 'curtsy' - and Lomys bends at the waist to bow a deep bow.

At the sight of her some of the Queen's entourage whisper to one another, their faces shifting from incredulity to a cautious curiosity. The Queen herself, no more than five and ten feet away, looks straight into Citlali's jade eyes and searches for something familiar. Not finding it, the Queen allows herself an arch of the eyebrow and the beginnings of a smile.

"And where did they find you young lady?" asks Olenna with a skeptics lilt in her voice.

"Go on," says the fat Lord Cuy, "give her your greeting."

"I-" begins Citlali.

"Now Lord Cuy," says Olenna, "I appreciate your enthusiasm to show me your new captive, but I believe that in order to form a fair judgement it'd be best if I spoke to her alone. Would you give us the courtyard?"

"Eh, well, of course Lady Olenna," says Lord Cuy, "I only meant to-"

"Nothing against you of course my Lord," says Olenna.

Lord Cuy, stammers for a rejoinder, and his wife speaks for him.

"Lady Olenna," says the thin Lady Cuy, "I'm not sure what you're implying-"  
"Lord Cuy has made a great claim. It seems only necessary that it be appraised fairly," says Olenna, "if anything, you should take this as a sign that you've piqued my curiosity."

The Queen of Thorns offers a matronly smile.

After a moment to think on it, Lord Cuy nods.

"Of course," says Branston Cuy, "anything for our close allies in Highgarden."

A few more pleasantries are exchanged and the Cuy entourage exits the courtyard garden, leaving only the knights sworn to the Queen of Thorns behind as guards. Citlali knows it's them, because across their iron armor they wear sashes of a pale green color instead of the stark blue and yellow of House Cuy.

"Now then my dear," says Olenna to Citlali, "where  _did_  they find you? Ibb perhaps? Maybe in a Myrish port?"

"They didn't find me," says Citlali. She struggles with the thick consonants of the indigene language, "I come here. With Lomys."

"Ah yes your translator," says Olenna, shifting her gaze slightly to Lomys, "you look Westerosi young man. Are you?"  
"Yes milady," says Lomys, "I was born here in the Reach milady, and I was raised helping my father bring in the wheat."

"A hard working young man," says Olenna in a kindly way, "and now you work as a translator for a barbarian princess? You've come quite a long way."

"I am not princess," says Citlali, "I am not barbarian."

"Oh I never believed you were my child," says Olenna, "I'm sure this is something odd Branston has cooked up in order to earn another trip to the Citadel."

Citlali gives her a confused look.

"The Maesters don't like him going anymore," says Olenna, "I think he annoys them, so he tries to court them. Usually he tries with a new flower the old gray beards might be interested in. So then, from where did he pluck you?"

"I am from across the Sunrise Sea," says Citlali, "to the west."

"I thought we'd moved past this charade," says Olenna, not masking her irritation.

"It's true milady," offers Lomys. Then, realizing he'd spoken without being spoken to, he lowers his head, "forgive me milady, I don't mean to speak out of turn-"  
"Calm yourself young man," says Olenna, "you don't live in Highgarden without learning to cut through the weeds. Now, what is this you mean, it's  _true_?"  
"I, well," begins Lomys, "it's true what she says. She came with another to our farm, they have this book, and Lord Branston told us of the grand ship his men tried to take-"  
"When he took this princess as a hostage, in order to get them to surrender," says Olenna, "yes I know. He explained the interrogations and the other various horridness he's subjected this poor girl to."

"I am Itsmitl, not princess," says Citlali, "I journey and speak to indigene as to serve the Tlon. Lord Cuy change me from Itsmitl to princess. Lord Cuy lies."

The Queen of Thorns chuckles to herself, "that he does."

Citlali, unsure what to make of this Queen, looks to Lomys for help but he too stands stone still, waiting for the Queen to continue the conversation. For her part, the Queen of Thorns looks from one of them to the other. Her brow furrows in concentration.

"Let me see your book then," says Olenna.

Lomys hands the Book of Talking Leaves to one of the Queen's entourage who delivers it to the queen's lap. She opens it up and flips through the pages, each turn causing her eyes to lose a little more of their skepticism.

"Say something my dear," says Olenna to Citlali, "in your mother tongue. Say that you've come from the west."

[[I come from the west,]] says Citlali.

Olenna looks at the book, then at Lomys, then last at Citlali's jade eyes.

"Hah! Can this be real?" says Olenna, "and here I thought you were just some Essosi cast away. So Branston really found something? You're from across the Sunset Sea?"

"The Sunrise Sea," says Citlali.

Olenna face breaks from the rictus of skepticism into an open laugh.

"May I ask what brings you to your shores then?" asks Olenna.

"I come to bring words of Tlon," says Citlali, "to offer his gifts."

"Who is Tlon?" asks Olenna.

[[Tlon is…]] begins Citlali, trying to find the right translation.

[[...emperor,]] says Lomys, "Emperor," he repeats for the Queen of Thorns.

"Hmm. The emissary of a foreign emperor," says Olenna, "dressed like a Lysene harlot."

She shakes her head but Citlali is unsure if it's in disappointment or in disbelief.

"I'm sorry that this is how you have to see Westeros my dear," says Olenna.

"Can you help?" asks Citlali, "for me to leave?"

Olenna frowns.

"I don't know if Branston would let one of his flowers go so easily," says Olenna, "and I don't think I could coerce him, at least not now. My grandson has been imprisoned by the Faith Militant for crimes against the Seven, the new High Septon - some fanatic, dressed in rags, the type who flagellates himself no doubt -"

Neither Lomys nor Citlali appear to be following. Olenna sighs.

"I came here to ask for Cuy's support. Not everyone in the Reach is as…" Olenna thinks for a moment, "...broad minded, as House Tyrell. The charges against my grandson are stirring up something of a fervor, and I'm here to remind the  _loyal_  Lords of the Reach who still sits in Highgarden, and whose granddaughter is still the real Queen."  
"You are not queen?" asks Citlali.

Olenna chuckles, "well of course I am my dear but- where did you say you were from?"  
[[Atlacal,]] says Citlali.

[[Atlacal,]] says Olenna, trying the word out, "well I don't know how things work in Atlacal, but here in Westeros there are a number of queens, and not all of them play nicely with one other. And they can't always press their queenly demands, besides."  
Citlali frowns and begins to speak, but Olenna interrupts her.

"But only for now. Once my grandson is free and these fanatics are dealt with I'll have more sway over Branston and his foolish little schemes. I'll have him let you go - why, with Margaery's seal, he might even apologize. But for now, well, I'm sorry my dear, but I must let him have this."

Olenna offers a smile.

"It should be only a few weeks," says Olenna, "believe me my dear, I want this business dealt with as well."

[[Thank you, Queen of Thorns,]] says Citlali. She bows in the style of Atlacal, one hand over her heart, "thank you. I will make sure the Tlon learns of your kindness."

Olenna chuckles, "thank you my dear. Hopefully next we meet it'll be in better circumstances than this."

And with that the Tyrell matriarch bids them farewell.

Citlali thinks about the Queen for the rest of the day. As the guards escort her back to the room that serves as her cell and as she eats her meager meal of indigene food - the grass bread and the meat slop and the fermented mush they call cheese - all of it seems somehow easier to bear now that she knows her days in this place are numbered. The under furnished guest room that is her new home comes alive with details she's never noticed before. The sky beyond the crude stone window seems deeper and bluer than before. The bed with the four crude bed posts made of wood - and a mattress made of straw - covered in the tough thin cloth they call linen that's always too cold and too rough seems almost inviting now. The little stone fireplace covered in ash; the stone shelf home to some white candles; the disturbing seven pointed star made of brass; even the walls seem sturdy and warm instead of cold and cyclopean.

Even Lomys seems more pleasant, seated there by the window, looking pensively out at the evening sky. Unlike Citlali, he can move about the Sunhouse as he wishes - the guards won't press him back into his room. In the beginning he used to wander often, but after only a few days he took to waiting with Citlali in her room, peppering her with questions about Nahua. Or if not he'd spend a great deal of time in his own room, adjacent to hers. At first Citlali didn't know what to make of this. Maybe he still wants to see the rest of my tattoos, Citlali finds herself thinking. His eyes still search for hers and, when they find them, they still hastily look away.

A bumpkin, Citlali thinks to herself, although this time the word has no bite to it. It must be the good will of the Queen. Emotions are catching, and having been the recipient of kindness, Citlali finds herself in a kind mood. With the weight of this place taken off of her it's easier to understand his side. Lomys didn't know what he was bringing her to. Citlali thought he must have known, but she had her doubts too.

And now she knows better. Once travellers started coming to hear her speak like a trained bird, and once Citlali had more chances to see the world outside her room, it was clear why Lowly Lomys stayed in his room. He shrinks before his betters. He bows deeper even than any of the servants or chambermaids, and he struggles with the fancy language of these well-to-do indigene. Like in the times before the Tlonotl and the Triple Alliance, here the land is held together by bloodlines, men and women pledging themselves to royalty, and royalty pledging themselves to themselves. Lomys the wheat farmer's boy is as lost in this place as she is - she saw this before but thought it an illusion. Citlali looks over to him now still looking out the window. The aquamarine of the day gives into the azure of night, mottled with darknesses against the sky where the clouds are rolling in. Although the window faces south toward the distant sea Lomys always takes care to sit on the window's right edge so he can look eastward in the direction his old life once was. Citlali sometimes does the same thing when she thinks of dead Acatzin and the absent Ixtehuetlon.

She goes to the tall mirror - once plain now brightened by her cheer - and plucks out the feathers from around her elbows. She tosses off her shoes to one side and looks into the mirror to see Lomys looking back at her.

[[The Queen help,]] says Lomys, [[she leave help.]]  
[[She'll help me leave,]] corrects Citlali.  
[[Yes,]] says Lomys, [[she'll help you leave, this is happy for you?]]

His smile gives into a tentative laugh. Citlali laughs a little too and for a moment things in her simple room don't seem so bad.

[[Yes,]] says Citlali playfully, [[this is happy for me.]]

[[Where you leave?]] asks Lomys.

[[Where will I go?]] asks Citlali.

[[Yes,]] says Lomys, [[where will you go?]]

[[Somewhere far from here,]] says Citlali, [[I need to find the Loatilistli or the Ixtehuetlon, if either of them are still sailing. That, or survive until the Tonatli Teon comes back with the colonists.]]

[[Your people come back?]]

[[Yes, but not for a while,]] says Citlali, [[they know the way now, but it still takes time to cross the sea.]]

Citlali looks into his blue eyes. They've lost their unnaturalness.

[[If I leave, what will you do?]] asks Citlali.

[[I don't know,]] says Lomys. He looks back out the window, his eyes moving across the dark green landscape of the Reach in twilight. "Maybe I'll go back to growing wheat, but I can't do that myself. You need people to work a field."

"But you have more family, no?" says Citlali, "people who can help."

"No," says Lomys, "fathers family didn't survive the last winter, and mother's family were traders, gone for years now."

Lomys gives a pensive hmmm, and then sighs.

"But I'll make my way," he says, "I'll make my way. You don't have to worry about me."

Citlali plucks out the last of the feathers, placing them on a small table near the crude tall mirror. Lomys slumps forward, crossing his arms and leaning on the windowsill, pondering what a translator does when there's nothing to translate. Citlali walks over to him, placing her hand on his shoulder to console him and Lomys' shoulder jolts up at her touch, relaxing again after a moment. Citlali lets her fingers slide up toward the nape of his neck and she sees his body relax under his nobleman's clothes. He turns to look at her and their eyes meet.

What happens after that? For Citlali, everything takes on an illusory tint. Is it that Lomys rises of his own volition or is that she bids him up from his chair? When they press their bodies close together, is it Lomys that leans in first or is it she that pulls him in? Somethings are less illusory than others - it's  _her_  that slips off his tunic and it's  _him_  who undoes her dress top - and other things flow into one another: the cool feel of the linen bed cloth flows into the warm softness of their clothes which flows into the life affirming sensation of flesh against flesh. How long has it been? Citlali wonders, not since back in Ayamictlan. He's nervous and still in a daze so Citlali guides him, taking his hand in hers and using it for herself until she's sure that he understands what he's meant to be doing. At that point he doesn't need much more encouragement. His muscles are lean and taut and they press into her smooth curves, she takes hold of his hips and pulls him into her rhythm, making sure to keep him close, their words a mix of their two tongues but the meanings the same - yes, like that,  _more_  - so that's it's easy to change and enjoy a new curve, a new stride, a new rhythm, until finally Citlali finds herself on top of Lomys, setting a pace she doesn't care if he can keep, chasing the little death.


	14. AN OLD RAVEN IS GRANTED A BOON

Ravens, like men, lose animus as they grow old. For men this means that their hair goes gray, their skin sags, and their bones grow brittle. For ravens this means that they can no longer fly as far or for as long, and so they must narrow their searching grounds. To press oneself in old age leads quickly to fatigue, and soon after that, some toothy, hungry maw. Some ravens are lucky however. They manage to treat with the strange but friendly old men who live in one of the tall stone towers of mankind. These old men will grant a raven sustenance and sanctuary in exchange for carrying thin pieces of bark from one place to another. Easy work. The bark hardly weighs anything at all and the distances required are not that much longer than the ones ravens already fly, and one gets to see much of Westeros, besides. But there are only so many of these friendly old men, and they have only so much room.

This old raven doesn't have the luck to be a kept raven. She roosts in the canopy of a lonely tree atop a lonely hill near the coast, where bugs and dead fish are mercifully easy to find. She never has to exert herself too much, but there are not so many other ravens hereabouts for company here in this corner of the continent. The few that do pass through prefer to ride the thermals up and down the coast on long foraging journeys. On the occasions when they come to roost in her tree - for it has the best view of the ocean for a good long ways - she asks of the things they've seen and the tales told to them by other crows they've met along on their flights.

What goes on in the north?, asks the old raven in the speech of her kind.

The men in the City of the Red Keep grow wild, says one of the coastal ravens, a new breed of them dress in black and patrol the streets, beating others with clubs.

Sometimes these beatings lead to corpses, chimes in one of the other coastal ravens, the ravens there have a lot to eat these days.

And north of there?, asks the old raven.

Quite something, caws the coastal raven, they say that the men are warring up north, and that there are so many corpses that even the crows eat well.

Why do the men war?, asks the old raven.

Who knows, says one of the coastal ravens.

Who cares, says another.

Did you know there are more men warring in the east?, offers a third coastal raven, the others say that across the water one can feast without end, but, well...

But what?, asks the old raven.

They say they've seen dragons in the skies.

A great fluttering of wings starts up.

Foolishness!, says a coastal raven, some ravens will believe anything.

Mirages, says another, a raven isn't meant to last in the heat.

Distractions, says a third, to pull us away from the feast to the north.

What do you think old raven, says one of the coastal ravens, would you head east or north?

And go through all that trouble?, says the old raven, I'd be a hawks feast before I found a feast of my own.

The ravens laugh a trilling laugh.

Days later, perched in her lonely tree, the old raven sets to thinking about wars and dragons. To even attempt the journeys for these sights would surely result in her death. But what is she doing up in this tree that's worth staying alive for? She's had her fill. She is old and seen more of life than most other birds, raven or no. The time has come to spread her wings and make one last flight, if only to see what she sees. Better to die on some foolish adventure than to grow so old and feeble she falls from her tree and breaks her skull.

With this thought filling her chest she flies up to the tallest branch of her lonely tree to see the world with new eyes. The first thing she sees is out across the water - a great set of white sails and the pair of grand ships they belong to.

That is where I will go, says the old raven to herself.

It take only a few minutes for the old raven to fly down to the coast. The seagulls around the beach pay her no mind as she flies by - they're not as clever as ravens and have no curiosity for anything that isn't immediately edible. Under her the rock and sand gives way to the blue of the sea and a warm updraft lifts her up. She's glad for the altitude. One dip into the water will wet her feathers and drown her.

Once she flies closer the old raven can see that these two ships are much larger than most of the other ships that sail by. The masts are tall and the old raven perches atop of one so that she has an easy view of everything below. The men go about doing their business - they carry things from one place to another, fasten something or cut it loose, talk and talk and talk. If they've noticed the old raven perched up on the masts they don't make a show of it. All the better for the old raven. She flutters from one mast to another, observing the carvings scattered here and there, taking experimental pecks to investigate the wood, watching the triangular flags blow in the wind.

Too tired to fly back to the coast, the old raven is at the mercy of the ship's route. She finds herself seized with panic, surrounded by so much blue. If the ship heads out to sea it'll be even harder to fly back to shore, and it's unlikely that the people below will be so kind as to feed her from their own stores. If anything, they will do what men always do and try to strike at her until she's gone or dead. But as luck would have it her panic is misplaced. The people don't notice her nor do they wander far from the coast. It's as if they too are worried about leaving the sight of land.

A day goes by with the old raven on the sailing ship. The men take notice of her but unlike the people of the continent these sea people treat her with curiosity instead of revulsion. Some of them offer her scraps of their rations - dried fish and a curious type of circular flat bread - just so they can get a closer look at her. But he old raven keeps her distance. She's used this trick before herself in order to attract mice. She'll not be caught in that trap, so she makes sure the men are far away when she pecks at their offerings.

During one such feeding the men - and women too, the old raven notices now, an oddity on a ship- are distracted by the cry of one of their brethren. Instinctively the old raven flies back up to the mast for her own safety. From there she sees that one of the men has injured himself with an obsidian knife. His forearm seeps blood from a gash so deep the old raven can see the white of bone. Beyond the initial cry of pain however the man restrains himself, allowing himself only to clenching his teeth in agony. He wraps his fingers below the slash to staunch the bleeding as the others around him yell out for aid.

From below deck comes a man adorned in jade, wearing a plumed helm with feathers of a kind the old raven has never seen before. Long and luxurious plumes of orange, white, and black, azure blues and incandescent reds, and most beautiful of all, streaks of emerald green that appear more gemstone than feather. Although the man's hair is gray his body is muscular and lean as if he were a man much younger, and he's covered in the dark ink of so many tattoos. The plumed man makes his way to the injured man and inspects the wound. He has the injured man sit down and sits himself down before him, folding his legs in a strange way that the old raven can't get her head around, holding his arms out.

For a minute or so nothing happens. By now the other people on the deck have gone back to whatever it is they were doing but the plumed man still sits with the injured man, unmoving. Then the old raven notices something: the wound no longer seems to be bleeding. Then- no, these old eyes must be failing me, caws the old raven to herself. For the blood begins now to move up into the air - the pool of it by the injured man rises slowly, held aloft as if by some invisible wind. Little bubbles of it float upward, strings of it pull themselves together, all of it hanging just above the surface of the deck. The plumed man's eyes are closed and he mumbles every now and again. Once in the air the blood reverses its current back into bloody mess of the man's arm, his wound stitching itself back together as it does so, leaving behind a dark streak of flesh where there was injury. In the time it takes the old raven to pick a fish clean the plumed man has restored all of the injured man's lost blood back to him. The wound is healed.

The injured man flexes his forearm, opens and closes his fist experimentally. He smiles and rotates his wrist, satisfied. The plumed man takes the once-injured arm with two hands and turns it over, inspecting the dark scar. He considers something. The plumed man then slaps the scar and the once-injured man pulls back. The plumed man admonishes him, pointing a finger and slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other, as the once-injured man gesticulates with his now healthy arm, trying to explain himself.

Who knows what it is they say. The old raven can only imitate men, not speak with them.

Days go by and the old raven accustoms herself to life on the ship. As before, the ship doesn't sail too far from land. Not that it would matter if it did anymore. Now the old raven has befriended one of the men with the plumed helms, although this one's helm is different than the one she saw before, adorned only with the feathers of emerald green. The man's quarters are large, luxurious, and at the back of the ship, where large windows afford him a clear view of the ship's wake and the sea beyond. His quarters also contain the best food.

The man offers the old raven treats and allows her to rest on his windowsill. Alone in his quarters he will sometimes talk to her, although of course the old raven has no idea what about. As he pontificates, she eats: a green fruit, the size of an apple, but with a pink flesh that is juicy and sweet; berries in a rich shade of blue that bleed purple; large black and white mottled seeds that must be snapped open to eat; and the dried meat of an animal she's never tasted before, all lean and gamey. All of it more delicious for it's sheer novelty.

Sometimes, on a day when the sky is cloudy and the old raven tires of the plumed man's soliloquies, such as now, she goes to visit the other of the two ships. This one has only three masts and not nearly as many people on it; a difference due to more than just it's smaller size. The old raven can see that many of the people on the second ship are painted with the same dark scars as the man who injured himself before. One of them, a woman with eyes the color of fresh oranges, is missing a hand. They've been fighting, probably with men from the continent, the old raven thinks to herself. Men always find some reason for fighting.

The old raven doesn't much like to spend much time perched around this second ship - the mood of the people here is much gloomier and they are less charitable in their treat giving - but it's this second ship is where the sea people keep their spoils of war.

For the third time now the ships have overtaken and captured a fisherman's boat, and since they end up with more fish than they can eat, they must salt what they can't. At these times the old raven takes advantage of the fish the people manage to lose sight of in the salting process. Isn't this stealing, the old raven thinks to herself. Hardly, she reassures herself. If anything, in her wise old age, the old raven is teaching them to be more careful.

Unlike the Squidmen of the Isles these sea people prefer to take their victims alive, and all the fishermen taken captive are restrained in ropes and kept below deck. When the old raven eats her fill of fish she flutters down to one of the portholes to see them. There she sees the captives - identifiable by their skin, which is much paler than that of the sea people - inside a large wooden cage. Nine of them mill about the cage, resting on something or another. On the other side of the wooden bars sits one of the sea people, a young tattooed man dressed in a light blue tunic. There on the floor he speaks to the captives and points to the book. Of all the prisoners, only one of them, an older woman dressed in cream colored robes, seems to be paying attention. When the reader asks it of her, the old woman responds with a few words. The reader appears satisfied to hear her speak. This goes on for some time and the old raven is content to watch, amazed that men might have different styles of calls amongst themselves, like ravens have with crows. Not one to be outdone, the old raven makes her own try at it:

"Iiiiikuaaalotl! Iiiiiiiikuaaaalotl!" cries the old raven.

Both the robed old woman and the reader look at the old raven with fear, then annoyance, at her interruption.

Knowing when she's not welcome, the old raven departs.

She returns to the four masted ship and a commotion in progress. Perched at the foremost mast she sees the people are arguing with another, pointing to something out along the shore. The old raven looks out there herself and sees a tall rocky coast rising up from the sea, capped by an unfriendly patch of thorny green brush. It doesn't seem like somewhere a ship would do well, says the old raven to herself, but I am no sailor. Many of the people on the deck below her seem to agree, and they point further along the coast, insisting they continue on. But the others are insistent. Behind her, at the top of the second and tallest mast, a woman has climbed up and sits in a small wooden box, from which she looks out toward the coast. She shouts something down to the others below and the ships press on toward landfall.

As they move closer the old raven can see what the men were aiming for. By a trick of vision some of the rocks jutting up from the sea hid an inlet. My eyes must be worse than I thought, says the old raven to herself, if these men could find this illusion so much quicker than me. The gloomy ship, smaller of the two, goes on ahead to make sure the inlet is traversable, and once it's through the larger plumed ship follows behind. The old raven keeps her spot at the foremost mast through all of this, pleased to be carried to shelter by these sea people.

What luck, thinks the old raven to herself. The inlet leads to a rocky cove, tall and deep, such that the both of the ships can fit inside it and with flat sections on either side where people can stay and setup shelter. Once in the shade of the cove the old raven flies up to the ceiling of and coasts her way back down, making sure to stop at the rocky outcroppings along the walls and the small plants that root themselves in their crevices. She snatches a few bugs here and there until she's full, and marvels that there are still so many outcroppings she's yet to visit. Below, men from the gloomy ship spill out onto the rocky stone floor and find stones to moor their vessel to while the plumed ship finishes pulling into the cove. Who knew these strange people would bring me here?, thinks the old raven to herself, but I will miss hearing the stories of the old coastal ravens. And although she is momentarily saddened, she takes heart: all she need do is fly up out of the cove and find some other tree, where there will surely be other ravens cawwing together over the happenings of men.


	15. THE ATLACAL INTERROGATE THEIR CAPTIVES

Nochtli leads the five captives up the rocky path to a cliffside that overlooks the sea, where the blood priests wait by the altar. Carved recently out of the local stone, many of the engravings on the altar are incomplete. The various Aspects are unfinished, the inscriptions of the Four Siblings remain unpainted, and the round piece of bronze at the front of the altar is scuffed and scratched. Despite this, Nochtli can still peer into the bronze and catch his reflection staring back at him. His eyes are the eyes of the common Atlacal: honey brown in the light, obsidian mirrors in the dark.

Only a few weeds grow amongst the rocky nooks up on this cliff. From down below the sounds of waves crashing against stone slabs rise up as a single low cacophony, their salt spray seasoning the air with the smell of the sea. The other macuahuitl behind Nochtli fall back as they approach the landing where the altar sits, forming themselves into a barrier in case the manacled captives should try an escape. Once this is done the last member of Nochtli's entourage steps forward, an old woman the indigene call Septa, who dresses in cream colored robes and who wears a seven pointed star made of wood around her neck.

"Who do you serve, my son?" she asks the first of the five captives.

"I am not your son, old woman," says the captive, "nor do I serve any of your false gods. I serve only the God who Drowned for us."

Septa nods, her manner stiffly formal.

"These men want to make you an offer," says Septa to the captive, "you can either serve them or be killed."

"Then I will be killed," says the captive. He holds his head up.

Septa sighs.

[[This one chooses death milord,]] says Septa to Nochtli.

Proud, thinks Nochtli, it's a shame the squid men always choose death.

[[Noble is his sacrifice,]] says Nochtli dutifully. He nods his head in reverence of teotl and to signal Mixkoatl.

Mixkoatl steps forward from the barrier of fighters and escorts the captive to the stone altar that sits right at the edge of the cliff. The captive gives no struggle and walks with his head held high. With the help of one of the three blood priests Mixkoatl lays the man down on the stone altar, chest up, with his bound hands above his head. Two of the blood priests hold his arms and legs in case he should struggle, but this is unnecessary. The captive's body is calm. His hard lined face is locked in a scowl.

The head blood priest, a serious looking man named Ehecatl, adorned with jade earrings, jade studs, and a plumed helm, steps up to the altar with an obsidian knife in hand. He looks out past the captive on the altar as if to address the sea, the sky, and the tall rolling clouds that extend out over the horizon.

[[He Who Slakes the Thirst of the World,]] proclaims Ehecatl, [[let us appease you with this sacrifice, to exalt in your glory, to calm the seas and storms, and to aid in the wars to come.]]

Ehecatl raises his arms up to the sky and the captive cries out: "What is dead may never die!"  
[[Warrior! Unafraid and willing! Your blood renews the world, from age to age,]] Ehecatl gathers his arms together to hold the knife with both hands, [[Thanks be to you.]]

The knife comes down in a flash while the crashing of the sea below overpowers the sound of the captive's expiring gasps. With the practiced smoothness of years Ehecatl slips his hand into the captive's chest and wrenches free a still beating heart as the salty sea air takes on the iron smell of blood.

One of the other blood priests takes a macana and slices the captives head clean off as another blood priest collects the head to roll it over the cliff and down into the sea. Once that's done they grab the captive's arms and legs once more and they toss the rest of him into the sea as well.

With the heart held high in the air, Ehecatl exclaims: [[Indigene! The Tlon has no decree that demands death for ignorance. Glimpse now upon teotl, and lift yourselves up from the abyss!]]

Nochtli stamps his macana on the rocky cliff floor in unison with the other macuahuitl. The four remaining squid men are startled but they don't deign to look away from the heart. Seeing them sparks a flash of memory in Nochtli. Suddenly he is a boy, witnessing his first sacrifice on the high holy days, when his parents took him to see the jeweled and perfumed Manifestations making the necessary sacrifice for living a year of decadence and luxury. The captives now are like Nochtli was back when he first saw blood splatter on gemstones. Eyes wide with fear and awe at seeing red beating flesh borne in hand, a mote of crimson against the blue vastness of the sea and sky beyond.

Ehecatl becomes very still and his eyes close in concentration. The heart of the captive, still held high, it's beat still fluttering, drips blood and viscera down his umber arm. After a moment the dripping blood stops, it's movement arrested, and then it begins to float up in defiance of the earth's pull. Rivulets and globules of red rise up into the air and, rising higher now than the heart, they become like smoke and dissolve in the air. The heart itself starts to fume, more and more of it dissolving, until eventually all of the heart and blood is gone, lost to the wind.

The indigene captives stare at this demonstration with searching eyes. Whatever squid god these indigene might have it hasn't brought them these sorts of gifts, Nochtli thinks to himself.

And yet, despite this display, the next captive chooses sacrifice, and the one after him, and the one after him. Each of them holds his head up high and chooses death. Each of them walks calmly to the altar, silent save for their last words: "What is dead may never die!" Each is dispatched in the same way: a flash of shining black, a last gasp, and a tumble into the sea. Same as the first ship, Nochtli thinks to himself. A month docked here and the only opponents to be found are these gray cloaked squid men who insist on sacrifice instead of service. When the flotilla arrives the Commander will surely ask those posted here for another tour instead of letting them return to Ayamictlan. They'd have to if they can't find any local labor - Nochtli might not have to go to battle but he'll surely be posted to the Hammers. So that's another year at least. And then, at the end of that year, will begin the Twelfth Year of the Reed - the year that will host the ikualotl.

They won't let anyone go once the Rot is so near, Nochtli thinks to himself. He'll have to celebrate the Rekindling here in this foreign place - this "Westeros".

But not all is lost. There's still one captive left. This last one, ruddy faced and brown haired, is more portly than the other squid worshippers, and now that his time has come the man comes apart at the seams. His eyes glance here and there as if still working through an escape. His manacled hands hold each other tight. He shivers under his grey indigene rags, possessed not by cold but by the dark hunger for life.

[[You,]] says Nochtli, pointing to this last indigene. He nods for Septa to ask him.

"Who do you serve, my son?" asks Septa.

"I…" begins the captive. He looks around to see the other macuahuitl looking on. He leans forward to speak.

"I serve the Seven, Septa," says the captive, "I keep to the new gods! My - my allegiance to the Drowned God is just -" he whispers low, "- to keep up appearances. Things are hard on the Iron Isles, but I keep to the new ways Septa, it's just that a man has to do what he has to do-"

"That he does," says Septa, "and I am sure the Father will judge you justly my son, but that judgement is to come later."

"Intercede for me Septa!" says the captive. He falls to his knees and takes Septa's wrinkled hand, kissing it.

"Please, I will reform my ways if you can save me Septa," says the captive.

"It's not for me to decide," says Septa, "on this these feathered barbarians are clear. I am only to interpret. You decide if you will serve or die."

"Then I will serve!" says the captive.

Although Nochtli doesn't have a good handle on the indigene tongue the captive's fear is so clear that he and the other macuahuitl chuckle.

[[He will serve,]] confirms Septa for Nochtli.

[[Good,]] says Nochtli, [[what do we call him?]]

"What is your name, my son?" Septa asks the captive.

"Lodos," says the portly captive.

Nochtli dismisses the gathered macuahuitl so that only he, Mixkoatl, and the two younger macuahuitl, One-eyed Olin and Ek Chuah remain with the captive. Together they escort Lodos back down the rocky cliffside, following the stone pathway leading below, leaving the Ehecatl and the other blood priests to sit and contemplate teotl by the sea.

The rough stone wall curves leftward as Nochtli makes his way back down rocky path with the captives and the others. The tall stone barrier that serves as the cove's concealing curtain rises up on his right, and beyond that, the open ocean. The strongest of the sea's waves crash against these great stones, sending water splashing up the top, but protecting the cove so that only the mildest of waves manage to wash in. To his left the seawater bay extends deep into the earth, underneath a tall stone ceiling from where the Commander's new pet crow flutters here and there. The Ixtehuetlon, reunited with them after its run in with the indigene of the eastern shore, is moored to the rocky shore nearest to Nochtli near the mouth of the cove. The Loatilistli is moored farther in on the opposite shore, it's four proud masts only half way reaching the cove's ceiling.

The Atlacal encampment is made up of tents set up along the inside of the cove where the Hammers, the Needles, and the other Macuahuitl, just over a hundred in number, maintain their residence. Here in this cold, salt encrusted place they piece together the comforts of home: some of the Hammers take a break to improvise a tune on their ivory flutes, a few fighters gather together to smoke tobacco out of makeshift pipes, and some of the Needles have swept a flat portion of the cove clean of loose stones where they've drawn the bounds of an Ulmetl court in chalk. Two teams now play, hitting the rubber ball around, the captain of either side wearing improvised akolmi on their forearms. As the evening approaches the air begins to take the scents of supper - the smell of maize-meal being crisped, of beans being cooked, and of the myriad earthy spices the Atlacal are testing on the gamey flesh of the hoofed beasts of this foreign land, the ones the indigene call 'boars'.

Near the innermost part of the cove stand the four wattle and daub structures, like clean sepia-colored adobe, with wooden roofs that serve as the various rooms where the Commander and his council draw up plans. A fifth wooden framework is currently under construction by the dozen captives the Atlacal have already taken. Eight of them are fishermen pulled from stray boats the Atlacal have come across and four are travellers, like Septa, taken as they camped along the coast. Although the captives are not bound in anyway, five Macuahuitl fighters oversee them, each of them brandishing their Blacksheen maces.

The staging room is the most stable of the structures, built by the Atlacal Hammers instead of the clumsy inexperienced captives. Above the entrance to the square structure hang the three triangle flags of the Triple Alliance: the three emerald and crimson reeds of Atlacal, the golden rope and knot cross of Holy Iwaniku, and the four white and black hawk feathers of Hinojovo. One-eyed Olin and Ek Chuah step ahead first to lead the way for Lodos behind them, and Nochtli and Mixkoatl behind him.

Inside the building the platform floor and the inner walls are clean and flat. On the lower part of the walls are low tables and shelves containing delicate ceramic jars of ink and poultices, and higher up are strung caches of rations in netted bags. On the very back wall the three flags of the Triple Alliance are hung. Four wooden pillars hold up the roof and at the center of the square they create there is a table, low to the ground, covered in one large sheet of amate paper where the council's minds have charted a rough map of this indigene coast line.

Seated at the table are the heads of the Atlacal expedition:  
Yaretzi, the young head of the Needles who serve as Tlon's ambassadors and explorers, sits on the right, her black hair tied back in a messy bun so that she can better read the amate scrolls before her. Her hands are stained with black ink and all around her person, on her chin and her forehead and a few spots on her blue and white tunic, one can see where she's left her own fingerprints.

Beside her sits Tizoc, seated on the ground with his back ramrod straight and his head inclined just so. With the murder of Captain Tenoch at Castle Starfall's hands and with the death of Captain Camaxtli in the indigene raid on the Ixtehuetlon, Tenoch was hastily promoted to Captain in their place, head of the Macuahuitl, due to his seniority. Mixkoatl clamored for Nochtli to be made Captain instead, and some of the other macuahuitl agreed, but it was in vain. He tries to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth - he didn't even want the title until it came within his reach. And it's all for the better anyway. Captains would certainly not be allowed to return home.

Across from Tizoc sits Nayaraq, the woman who serves as the head of the Hammers, who serve as Tlon's builders. A woman of the southern wilds she is the eldest of the four heads and has her gray hair gathered together in a simple ponytail fastened with gold circlets. Her green shawl hangs long over her white-sleeved arms and she smokes tobacco out of a long pipe with intricate patterns of flowers and stones. Her orange eyes look at someplace somewhere far away, working something out.

At the center sits Commander Ikal, head of them all.

[[Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day,]] says Commander Ikal, [[who is this?]]

[[A captive sir,]] says Nochtli, [[one of the squid men sailors, willing to serve.]]

[[Hmph,]] says Commander Ikal. Although the creases of age are not yet so heavy on him he's already replaced all of his gold piercings for silver ones in the style of older and more distinguished men. Always austere he doesn't wear his plumed Commander's helm, preferring instead that his cropped black and grey hair remain uncovered. Like Nochti, the Commander has the dualistic eyes of the common Atlacal.

[[Has he already been interrogated?]] asks Ikal.

[[No sir,]] says Nochtli.

[[Good,]] says Ikal, [[sit him down. Septa will translate for us.]]

Nochtli forces Lodos to the ground with a hand on the shoulder. Septa sits down of her own accord, a little to one side so as to not impede the Commander's words.

[[What is your name, indigene?]] asks Commander Ikal.

Such is Septa's skill with both the Common Tongue and Atlajtoli that she can interpret as the Commander speaks.

"My name is Lodos," says Lodos. Then hastily, "milord."

[[Lodos,]] says Ikal, [[do you know why we've come to your shores?]]

Lodos shakes his head no.

[[We've come to help you,]] says Ikal, [[and in so doing, help ourselves.]]

"Help?" asks Lodos.

[[Yes Lodos,]] says Ikal, [[there is a great catastrophe coming of which you and your people are unaware. We want to help prevent it.]]

"A catastrophe?" asks Lodos.

How can they not know? asks Nochtli to himself. To a man, all of the indigene are ignorant of the ikualotl and completely unaware of the Rotted Ones. Like in the Moe'Uhane archipelago the indigene will need to be convinced of the benefits of cooperation and the necessity of tribute. It means a longer tour of duty, thinks Nochtli to himself, on cold foreign seas instead of the warm beaches of home.

[[Yes, a catastrophe,]] says Ikal, [[the ikualotl, the Rot of the Sun.]]

"The sun...rots?" asks Lodos.

[[Yes. Like everything else in this life, the sun lives and dies. When rot weakens the sun so too does it weaken the Jeweled Hummingbird, Harbinger of War, who holds up the sun for mankind to live. We must offer sacrifice to restore the sun's teotl and to aid the Harbinger in his battle against his three siblings, lest the world fall into an eon of darkness and chaos.

I know our methods seem harsh, but such is the danger of an endless ikualotl that we cannot afford half-measures. It is to the benefit of all mankind to work together to strengthen the Sixth Sun against the ikualotl. That is why your cooperation will be met with reward.]]

These last words, at least, have a reassuring effect on Lodos and he calms his fidgeting.

"What...what would you ask of me, milord?" asks Lodos.

[[You see? All that's needed is a little understanding,]] says Commander Ikal. [[Now, Lodos, our good translator Septa here has already proven a valuable fountain of knowledge. If you want a reward you have to tell us something we don't know.]]

"What would be my reward?" asks Lodos.

[[Don't get ahead of yourself now,]] interjects Yaretzi.

[[The reward will depend on the knowledge you have to give,]] says Ikal, ignoring the ink-smudged Yaretzi, [[it's not unheard of for loyal captives to earn the title of Atlacal and all the various protections of the Tlon. And of course, their children are Atlacal as well. Provided of course they bow before the Jeweled Hummingbird and the Ivory Mask.]]

Lodos nods slowly to himself, considering this.

They press Lodos for what he knows. With Septa interpreting his descriptions they get an outline of the coasts and currents, the location of the Iron Islands and their murderous relations with the mainland, the creed of the Drowned God - each piece making clearer the strange customs of these lands. As Lodos speaks of the Ironborn home islands Nochtli imagines a collection of craggy grey stones rising up from the sea, bare of vegetation, surrounded by lean ships that are manned by rough men. In his mind's eye the sky above this place is always the gray of storms and the sea around it is dark and thick with white caps. Lodos tells the assembled that the ship he sailed on was a forward scout for the new Lord Reaper of Pyke - a lunatic named Euron Greyjoy - who has vowed to sail southward and eastward with his great fleet and take whatever lands he can lay his hands on. The council presses for specifics on distances and time tables but those details are beyond a man such as Lodos, who says:

"Please, I was pressed into service, I don't know the mind of my Lord, I only know the orders told to me."

Nochtli is inclined to believe him. Unlike the other squidmen Lodos lacks the hard set jaw and the iron-eyed glare of resistance. This is not a man for the Flower Wars, Nochtli thinks to himself, I doubt he'd even be able to manage a game of Ulmetl.

[[Septa,]] says Commander Ikal, [[stop translating for us. Do not resume until I say so.]]

Septa nods and falls silent.

[[What do you think?]] asks Commander Ikal of his assembled heads, [[does he seem like a honest convert?]]

[[Look at him,]] says Nayaraq. She motions to Lodos with slight nod of the head, an act that startles Lodos, making him visibly paranoid. [[This is not a man of guile.]]

[[An illusion most certainly,]] says Yaretzi, [[all the others chose sacrifice, did they not?]]

[[Yes ma'am,]] says Nochtli.

[[What if this one wants to throw us off the trail of his, what was it, Lord Greyjoy?]] asks Yaretzi, [[They are warriors, unafraid of death. This one might be trying to earn the good graces of his pagan god before his end, or trying to earn status for his family back home.]]

Command Ikal takes this into consideration.

[[And how would he do that?]] asks Nayaraq, [[who would go and tell his Lord?]]

[[Who knows why he would do anything,]] says Tizoc, [[these indigene know nothing of teotl. Who knows what their gods 'say' to them.]]

[[Precisely,]] says Yaretzi, [[nothing can be assumed. Not when we are so few in a place so unknown. We must be sure. And there are ways to be sure, in the old histories.]]

Then, after a pause, she adds: [[The water torture would get the truth out of him.]]

At this Nochtli raises an eyebrow.

[[The water torture is barbarism,]] says Nayaraq flatly.

[[It is...extreme, but perhaps-]] begins Yaretzi.

[[It is barbarism. And even if we wanted to, we couldn't do it for very long,]] says Nayaraq, her incredulous orange eyes coming alive, [[he'd ask for sacrifice in an hour. Then we'd have nothing but the lowly indigenes we have now when what we need is soldiers and leaders, the ones that know things.]]

[[What if we didn't sacrifice him?]] wonders Tizoc aloud.

A pause, like time stuttering, takes hold in the air for a moment.

Stunned, Nochtli forgets his rank and asks aloud: [[You mean, we don't sacrifice him, even if he asks for his teotl to be released?]]

Another pause.

[[Yes,]] says Captain Tizoc.

Nochtli finds himself surprised at how simply the word drifts into the air and becomes real. How casually someone could offer up such heresy. The others take notice of it too: Commander Ikal's go wide with morbid possibility, Yaretzi's gaze becomes hard and serious, Tizoc surveys the reaction to his words, and Nayaraq takes a long drag from her pipe. The other Macuahuitl look on, waiting for a voice.

[[If he asks for sacrifice we grant it to him,]] says Nayaraq, [[the ikualotl-]]

[[Only wondering aloud,]] says Tizoc, [[we would grant it to him, yes, but one has to account for all possibilities. What if the situation were dire?]]

Commander Ikal listens to this, nodding.

[[Our situation is dire,]] says Yaretzi, [[it's just under two years until the sun must be Rekindled.]]

[[So we're to repeat the mistakes of Moe'Uhane then?]] asks Nayaraq, [[the torture there did nothing but justify the belief we were evil-]]

[[We needn't push him to death,]] offers Commander Ikal, [[just, well, just a drop of the water torture would be enough to intimidate him, would it not?]]

[[It will frighten the others,]] offers Nayaraq, [[If word ever spreads that the Ivory Mask administers the water torture to it's captives then they'll all choose sacrifice. This has all happened before. You all know it.]]

The Commander considers this as well, his hand in his chin, looking hard at the rough map of Westeros.

[[Nochtli, bring the buckets to the room with the locked door,]] says Commander Ikal.

Nayaraq takes a drag of her pipe and stares knives at the Commander.

[[Sir,]] says Nochtli. He bows his in acquiescence but then he pauses, [[Sir, if I may, so few captives choose service and the Hummingbird's Edict says that-]]

[[Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day that is your second unsolicited interjection,]] says Commander Ikal, [[one more and you'll go without rations for a week.]]

Nochtli falls silent.

[[Bring the buckets and make sure they're full of water,]] says Commander Ikal, [[I just want him to think that we're preparing something, let him build an illusion in his mind. Septa, tell him that he will be isolated from the other captives, since we aren't sure of his motives yet.]]

Septa opens her mouth to speak once more, making this all clear in the Common Tongue.

"No!" cries Lodos, "please, I've told you everything I know, I've answered every question you've asked!"

[[It isn't enough to answer when asked,]] says Ikal through Septa, [[a good servant anticipates the needs of his tlatoani.]]

"I…," begins Lodos, "alright, yes, I have more to tell milord! You will like this I know it! The Ironfleet - the ships of Euron Greyjoy, they'll sail around the Arbor instead of through the straits - the ironborn have already sacked the ports there. Did you know that?"

The assembled Atlacal take note of the Arbor on the map but appear otherwise unimpressed.

"The- the Arbor is known for it's wines! Best in all of Westeros! Wine so luxurious and expensive that only the monarchs of the Iron Throne have known it's taste! Surely milord likes wine?" offers Lodos.

[[Remind us, what is wine Septa?]] asks Ikal.

[[Fermented juice of a fruit,]] says Septa.

Nochtli, Yaretzi and Tizoc all make faces of disgust.

"Ah, no, no wine perhaps, but Lord Greyjoy - the new Lord Greyjoy, Euron, he- he wants to finish off the resistance on the Arbor, sack the ports on the outside of the island, before he sets sail to the east to make his offer of marriage to the Queen of Mereen, the Mother of Dragons, that way he can then set sail for-"

Lodos prattles on but there is where Septa stumbles through her interpreting.

[[Septa,]] says Commander Ikal, [[why did you stop? What is he saying?]]

[[Forgive me milord,]] says Septa, [[I am not sure how to translate this word he's used.]]

[[Which word is that?]] asks Yaretzi.

"Dragon," says Septa.

"Drragoan," says Ikal, testing the word out, [[Lodos, what is a "Dragon"? I don't believe our Septa has made mention of such a thing.]]

At hearings this Lodos stops, confused, a relieved smile settling on his face.


	16. THE DARKSTAR RISES ON THE HORIZON

The guards at the towers shout out when they first spot him. Sarella Sand, accustomed to rising early for study, hears their echoing cries as she descends down the stairs from the guest quarters of Castle Starfall to the library. It isn't clear what the guards are saying at first but after a few moments their shouting becomes clears: the banners of the approaching riders bear the white sword, the falling star, and the lavender field of House Dayne.

There is no mention of orange banners, red suns, or golden spears.

The Darkstar? Thinks Sarella to herself.

As if to convince her, the guards start wondering this aloud as well:

"The Darkstar! It must be the Darkstar!"

"Has he sent outriders? A raven?"

"Someone find Ser Brownstone!"

"Man the parapets!"

And so on.  
Obara must have reached High Hermitage days ago, thinks Sarella to herself as she recalls the instructions of Prince Doran's message. Starfall's assistance was never necessary; Allyria Dayne only needed to prove she was not part of some conspiracy against the Sunspear. Obara was supposed to have the Darkstar in custody by the time Sarella arrived in Starfall, so that he could be used in Doran's greater strategy against the Lannisters and 'Baratheons' of the Iron Throne. That would have meant Sarella could have gone back to playing her little game in the Citadel - what does it mean now if the Darkstar rides free?

Could Obara be dead? Sarella wonders to herself. She's one of the best fighter's Sarella's ever known, her being cut down is unthinkable. But the Darkstar is Darkstar.  
Sarella rushes back up the stairs to grab her things. It's early enough in the morning that the guards are having trouble rousing the rest of their compatriots and it's easy for her to slip through the halls in the groggy chaos before battle. She makes her way to the treasury, the place that Edric showed her, where the greatsword Dawn is kept. The guards posted to the treasury doors are gone and after Sarella slips through inside she finds that the interior rooms are locked. The room that holds Dawn is barred with an intricate wrought iron gate, depicting the stars and sky at twilight. Holding it shut is an iron lock, large, heavy, and intricate in the shape of a seven pointed star. Much tougher to break than the ornate latches the Maester use for their oldest baubles, thinks Sarella to herself. She tries to tickle the contraption into releasing the doors, but her tools are not match for the job - even if she had the time to test the lock's interior, she'd need something with a different hook and made of stronger steel.

The Darkstar will have Dawn, Sarella thinks to herself.

But there are other things in Starfall worth taking.

In the far distance the guardsmen of Castle Starfall start shouting out their guesses for the number of riders: one hundred, two hundred, no- at least four hundred riders.

Why would the Darkstar ride in so early? Sarella isn't sure, but it makes slipping down into the dungeons easy. The stone work goes from pale whites and greys to dark granite and brown as she descends down into the earth under the castle. Whenever she runs into a guard dozing off at his post she makes it a point to wake him up and alert him that the rogue Dayne approaches the castle with an army at his back. Hearing the panic in Sarella's voice as well as the panic echoing in through the castle halls, no guard looks back at her as they scramble away, jolted into action but still half asleep.

Down in the mildewy dungeon there isn't much to see with but it doesn't matter. Sarella can pick through the big clumsy doors without much trouble - they're child's play compared to puzzlebox upstairs in the treasury. Once she's made it into the cells she hurries down to the door in the back corner, farthest away from the torchlight. With a few deft motions the lock falls to the ground with a hard metallic clang and Sarella pushes open the dark wooden door, chasing away the dark with a torchlight.

Once she's inside Sarella can smell the humanity of the room - the waste and the spit and the blood. In the soft orange light Yolotl's thin frame comes into view. He kneels on the ground with his arms raised just over his head so that his ribs are clearly visible. The rest of the cell is mercifully hidden by the shadows.

[[Sacrifice…]] says Yolotl, [[please, I choose sacrifice…]]

[[Quiet]], says Sarella, [[I help, but only if quiet.]]

There is a pause during which Yolotl's gaze rests on the floor.

[[I will be quiet,]] says Yolotl.

Sarella goes to free him from his manacles but she hesitates. How trustworthy can he be? He's not some barbarian, he's got more reason than Ser Brownstone or Allyria give him credit for. But he isn't Westerosi either. His people do not follow the old gods or the new, his people kill one another in the name of their own gods, for their own reasons.

[[If you will not free me,]] says Yolotl, [[then please, release my teotl.]]

Sarella undoes his chains and wraps the thin Atlacal in a heavy hooded cloak. Yolotl struggles to his feet, leaning on her to steady his malnourished sinewy frame.

[[No,]] says Sarella, [[you live.]]

[[Do...do you claim me as your captive?]] asks Yolotl.

[[I ah...yes,]] says Sarella, [[I claim.]]

[[I would prefer sacrifice,]] mutters Yolotl.

Sarella doesn't know how to respond - people are rarely so sanguine when speaking of death.

Yolotl sighs.

[[ _I am but broken prey for the Golden Jaguar,_ ]] whispers Yolotl to himself.

"Come on," says Sarella, unsure of her new prisoner.

* * *

All of House Dayne is armed and ready by the time the Darkstar comes within the range of the archers, but no action is taken. If they allow the Darkstar to approach they will lose their advantage, but what if the Darkstar comes with peaceful intentions? The guards wonder this aloud to themselves and offer their musings to Ser Brownstone, but he, the Maester, and Allyria don't have to wonder. They know Gerold Dayne will bring no harm to the pale stone walls of Castle Starfall.

Allyria watches him from one of the windows of the central staircase. Atop a pitch black courser the Darkstar sits up straight, dressed in black and purple finery, his silver hair moving in motion with the horse's step with the black streak falling across one of his eyes. Gerold leads his men through the gates, his head held high with two bannermen holding up the lavender heralds of House Dayne at his back. He's still as handsome a man as Allyria remembers, and his eyes still move in the cold and focused manner of a predator.

Ser Brownstone meets with the Darkstar down in the castle courtyard. As they speak down below Allyria takes her young nephew aside, away from the window, and says to him:

"I will deal with cousin Gerold alone."

"But I am the Lord of Starfall," says Edric. His mind has been set alight by the guardsmen rushing about with their hands on their hilts, "A lord is responsible for his cadet-"

"You will always be my little Lord," says Allyria, "but you are not Lord of Starfall yet. I am still the stewardess for a few months more," says Allyria, "a stewardship appointed by your father."

Edric says nothing, just stares hard at Allyria.

"You're too young to remember Gerold Dayne," says Allyria, "By the time you were born his childhood tantrums had already curdled into the cruelty he has now. You don't know what he was like as a boy. You don't remember how Arthur always had to follow him around to keep him in check around me and Ashara, how he would shoot down ravens for fun or slaughter stray cats-"

"A good Lord is responsible for his cadet branch," repeats Edric, "moreso if they've dishonored his name."

He wants to be brave, Allyria thinks herself, but this is not about bravery.

"And a good Lord listens to wise counsel," insists Allyria, "I know the Darkstar's tricks and you do not, my little Lord.  _I_  will speak to the Darkstar."

The Darkstar will not corrupt my little Edric, thinks Allyria herself.

Edric looks back out the window, down at where the Darkstar and Ser Brownstone treat with one another, their best fighters close at hand.

"Why don't we kill him?" asks Edric. His question has no malice behind it, something that frightens Allyria. She reminds herself that the boy was a squire and knows well that men die, but to see such mortal frankness in the curiosity of a boy of two and ten is unsettling.

"We can't kill him now that he's been let in, he's protected by the guest right," says Allyria, "if House Dayne's honor is damaged by the Darkstar, violating the guest right would only damage it more. I will hear him speak and see what he has to say about his attempt on the princesses' life."

"But killing is wrong, what excuse could he have?" asks Edric.

"That's what I'm going to figure out," says Allyria.

Allyria doesn't give the Darkstar the pleasure of meeting him in the Lord's solar before the assembled court. Now that he's here he might be liable to inform them all of the illicit agreement he's managed to fulfill. No, in the small council room. Just him and her - not even Ser Brownstone, desperate to demonstrate his chivalry to her, will be in the room. He must wait at the door to enter only if Allyria cries out.

She waits at the head of the table and she will not rise to greet him.

The Darkstar always looks pleased with himself. As he enters the room he gives her a wry look, as if simply seeing her confirms that he will receive his reward. He wears fine clothes of black and deep purple so that his fair skin and silver hair stand out all the more, the black streak in his locks brushed carefully to his left side. Allyria gives him only a neutral look, but this does nothing to temper Gerold Dayne's disposition.

"Are you really so bashful about what people will say?" asks Gerold, "I know that marrying cousins is more uncommon in Dorne, but the Dragonlords-"

"You are not a Dragonlord," says Allyria, "no matter how much you look like one."

"Good to see you're in a fine mood," says Gerold.

"Why would a I be in a fine mood?" asks Allyria, "the Sunspear has sent word of your crimes, one of the Sand Snakes is here searching for you."

"I have no fear of snakes," says Gerold, "I don't strike them down to be rid of their venom. I keep them as pets."

"I am not joking-"

"And neither am I. The Sunspear sent a Sand Snake to High Hermitage as well, the fiercest from that pit of vipers to the east, and now she's chained to a wall in a dungeon. That is what  _I_ do with snakes," says Gerold, then: "Who did they send you? Nymeria? Tyene?"

"Sarella," says Allyria.

"Ah, the Islander girl with a taste for scrolls," says Gerold, "I'm sure her quill was a terrifying threat."

"You took Obara prisoner?" asks Allyria, her mind not quite keeping up with what's being told to her.

"Yes," says Gerold.

He places his hands behind his back and smiles once more.

"Areo Hotah however is dead," says Gerold, "He fought bravely and fiercely, but not well enough."

"Prince Doran's Captain of guards is dead," says Allyria to herself, "Gerold, what in the Seven's name does this accomplish?"  
"It accomplishes what I promised you," says Gerold, "what you promised  _me_."

"Gerold," begins Allyria, "you can't believe that when I said to you-"

"It was a promise," says Gerold, his smile gone, replaced by a cold angry mask, "offered and accepted. If you didn't want it done you shouldn't have said anything. But you wanted it done."

"It was made in jest," says Allyria, "to have House Dayne rule all of Dorne was fanciful thinking, the delirious chatterings of a girl in mourning. It was never meant to be serious surely you must know that."

"You did not say that then," says Gerold.

"Because I thought it was  _understood_ ," says Allyria, "how can you believe that I would give you the sword and, and  _me-_ "

"Ser Brownstone and the Maester know we made an agreement," says Gerold, "you might be able to beguile that dust covered knight into lying but the Maester will speak the truth."

Allyria did not have the foresight to bring a knife with her. Not that it would have mattered. The Darkstar is the Darkstar, his hands would pluck the blade right out of her hands before she could bring it to his thin pale neck. How thin the thread that separates a world where she must endure this gifted murderer and a world where she does not.

"Even if we were to take the promise as truly offered and accepted," says Allyria, "House Dayne is no nearer to ruling Dorne now than it was before you tried to murder a little girl."

"It would have been better if I'd gotten to the girl while she was in Doran's custody, then the blame would fall more directly on him, but Arianne is his heir, and is close enough to him for it to count," says Gerold.

"The girl will say it was  _you!_ " shouts Allyria.

"The girl is dead," says Gerold flatly, "she was always going to die. Or did you think the Sand Snakes were just going to let the girl go back to her mother in one piece? Doran was the only one holding them back, and now that he's drowning himself in milk of the poppy they've made their move."

"How do you know this?" asks Allyria.  
"I am not afraid of snakes. I keep them as pets," says Gerold.

Where is Sarella? Allyria wonders to herself.

"Without little Myrcella to tell them the truth, the Lannisters will have to choose: do they believe the Martells, sworn to avenge the death of Elia and her children, or do they believe the Daynes, a proud house of proud knights, like the dearly departed Arthur,  _former_  Sword of the Morning?"

Allyria looks away from him. These could be lies - they probably  _are_  lies. But she can't deny that their is a rhythm to them. The Darkstar is cruel, but he is calculating in his cruelty. His way isn't that of blind with rage but of a voyeur of suffering, who delights in the planning as much as the observing.

She looks back at him and notices him observing her now.

"And keep in mind, they're only going to come asking once the Golden Company has been dealt with," he continues, "for however long that engagement takes Dorne will be unable to send anyone out this far - they'd risk leaving their shores undefended against the sellswords. Whatever standing force they could spare I could deal with easily, provided I had the Dawn in my hands."

And if I deny him? Allyria thinks to herself. Any other man she could award the greatsword to would surely fall to the Darkstar. The milk-glass blade is sharp, strong, and never needs sharpening, but it's still only a sword - it's strength is its place as symbol, the awe it inspires and the title it bestows. Should the Darkstar take Dawn from the hands of a dead man the other noble houses would doubtless recognize him as the true Sword of the Morning, both by rite of conquest, and from a fear of the Darkstar's retribution.

But there must be another move, there must be some other way.

"You will not receive Dawn until House Dayne rules Dorne," says Allyria, "or don't you remember the  _promise?_ "

Malevolence flashes across Gerold's face so fiercely that for a moment Allyria thinks he might strike her, but the moment passes, and his false smile returns.

"And besides, there are other matters to consider," says Allyria, "the barbarian raiders are still plundering the coastline and we haven't yet found where they disappear to. Not to mention that the silver mines-"

"I am sorry to hear that Caste Starfall finds itself in trying times," says Gerold, "but without a good sword to aid me, there is only so much help I can provide."

Now he steps closer to her. She pretends not to notice.

"Perhaps we should consider nuance," says Gerold, "I am halfway to fulfilling my end of the promise, why can't you, my dear Allyria, help me see it through?" He places his hand on her shoulder but she shrugs it off, pulling herself away from him.

"I was promised two things," says Gerold, "it seems fair to me that if I've accomplished half of what I promised, I should receive half of what I'm owed. So which half do you think I should receive first?"

"How can you possibly measure the halfway point? How can you know your plan is halfway complete? Or that it will be completed at all?" asks Allyria, "all your hopes lie with whether or not some company of foreign sellswords will distract the Sunspear, the same Sunspear that held strong against the Targaryen army."

"It's been a long time since Aegon's Conquest," says Gerold, "a great many things have changed in the world. Barristan Selmy was once the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros, but now he is dead, and the bards now sing that the greatest swordsman in Westeros is now the Darkstar.

"Give me the sword. Or give me a challenger, any challenger. I'll fight them two or three at a time if it'll get through them faster. And once they're all dead you'll finally see that the decision has already been made. Dawn will be wielded by the best swordsman in the land, just as it's always been."


End file.
